Stone-cold Killer
by Leila B
Summary: Rose, a young widow, is transferred as a teacher to District 12. When she gets drawn into Haymitch's dangerous game of deception and rebellion, she soon learns that he is not the jaded drunkard she thought him to be. Fascinating and damaged, he might be the only one who stands between her and certain death in the arena when their plan goes terribly wrong…
1. In the Nick of Time

_Author's note: The world of "The Hunger Games" and all of the characters therein are Suzanne Collins' property. Fanfiction is my way of expressing deep admiration for her world-building and storytelling._

_Rose is mine, and at some point her story will leave the original plot as we know it and delve into "what would have happened if…"_

* * *

**Chapter 1 - IN THE NICK OF TIME**

The school. The train tracks. The bridge. The Seam. The Hob. The square, and beyond that, the public market with the merchant buildings, shops on the ground floor, living quarters above. And in the very centre, the Justice Building.

Rose Cumberland sighed in relief. Not that District 12's central town was that big. Still, it had taken her three weeks to navigate the warren of clapperboard houses of the area Twelvers called the Seam, the small gardens and backyard alleys. But here she was, and even in time!

She felt with both hands to make sure her hair was securely pinned up, and checked her appearance in a shop window, ignoring the prettily decorated cakes and tarts behind the glass. In her first days in town she had spent hours gazing into shops and wishing for things she'd never have. Living on a teacher's meagre salary had been so much easier in 12A, where there was hardly anything you could buy for money. But by now she'd seen how many of her young pupils lived. Cramped rooms, floor scrubbed painfully clean. Rationed coal supplies, enough for one hour of warmth. Mothers who skipped supper, to provide their kids with a piece of coarse bread for lunch.

Nobody in the Seam could afford cakes. The merchants' customers were the Capitol officials stationed in the district, the Peacekeepers, the engineers and the few professionals who lived in the area north of the square, as far away as possible from the grime of the mine and mill.

Poor and wealthy, each group kept to itself. The merchant's had their doctors, the poor at the Seam had their wise women. Cakes north of the square, black bread in the south. A school for the children whose parents dug for coal, and another one for those who pushed paper or sold goods. Only once they'd reached the age of 12, they met. By then hard conditions and recurring sickness had diminished their numbers enough to need only one school building. But by then the damage was done, the lines were drawn.

There were really two towns, Rose thought. Three even, if one counted the Victors' Village. Rose had never been there, had only glimpsed it when she'd explored the trail that ran from the school house along the train tracks. Beyond a copse of trees and a stretch of field one could see a wrought-iron fence and beyond that twelve white marble mansions. Right out of a fairy tale, offensive even, if one knew the hovels at the Seam. Still, as far as Rose knew, no children lived there, so the village was none of her business.

The children of the Seam school were.

She took a last look at her reflection. Brown hair, pinned up into a braided chignon. Brown eyes. Pale freckled skin, like most people in 12A. She fit neither with the dark colouring of the Seam nor the delicate blond-and-blue the merchants cherished so much in their wives and daughters.

'Back straight and chin up!' she admonished herself when she climbed the steps of the Justice Building. The generously spaced front porch served as a stage for all official functions. She'd only once entered the building when she reported for duty. But she'd stared at that porch every Reaping day, counting the bricks, the posts, the window panes. This was where they drew the tributes, these steps they walked up and out of the lives of their families, never to return.

She rubbed her arms, and reminded herself, that this was not Reaping day. Today was a happy occasion.

"Welcome! Welcome!"

Before she even touched the door handle, the mayor threw it open from inside. When he saw her, his face fell.

"It's just you, eh?"

Mayor Undersee was a tall, balding man, and this was the second time Rose met him. He'd somewhat absentminded presented her with the keys for the school, one eye always at the airframe on his desk, where replays of the Hunger Games flickered.

Taken aback, Rose shrugged. "I'm afraid so."

"Anything happen to Madge?" There was real fear in his voice.

"No, no." Rose tried to placate him.

Madge Undersee was 16 and the mayor's only daughter. She wanted to become a teacher – to her father's great disappointment, as Rose assumed - and had badgered him until he allowed her to help out at the Seam School. The girl was friendly, kind and good with children, and Rose could not imagine work without her. There were more almost 60 children between 6 and 12 to teach, and it didn't look like the second teaching position would be filled in the near future.

"Madge is fine. Actually, she's great," she assured him. "She'll make a wonderful teacher one day."

"Yeah, yeah," he sneered. "Time will tell. I'd rather see her married with children of her own." He frowned at Rose. "So if nothing's wrong with Madge, why are you here? If this is about the power shortage let me tell you that…"

Rose waited until he had to breath and hurriedly inserted "The feast" into his monologue.

"The feast?"

"You requested that all pupils take part in the feast tomorrow evening. I wrote it all down, this is the schedule…"

Her carefully prepared speech faltered when she found him staring transfixed over her shoulder and spreading his arms.

"Welcome!" he shouted, pushing her aside. "Welcome home!"

She turned and saw what had obviously erased her presence from the mayor's memory. It was one of those shiny Capitol cars she's seen only on the screen before now, polished metal and glass, powered by silent electricity.

Rose took a hasty step back, when the car doors opened and people poured out. A camera crew, assuming position on the porch to best catch the scene. Effie Trinket, District 12's escort, gleaming white smile and turquoise curls. And there came the victors…

Of course Rose knew them by now. All of Panem did. You had to live at the bottom of a coal mine to not be aware of these three: Katniss Everdeen, Peter Mellark and, maybe a bit less famous for his role as mentor, Haymitch Abernathy. Rose had never paid him much attention, not with all eyes on the two young victors, but close up he was – if not a looker – quite handsome with a Viking's face, deep set blue eyes, a broken nose, sun-bleached hair hacked off at chin's length. By himself with a butcher's knife by the look of it, she thought.

It was, of course, rude to stare – even at a victor whose face had been plastered all over Panem. But it was interesting to see how the news reports and reality matched up. They still wore Capitol couture, pricy material in rich colours. The girl was undoubtedly pretty, hair immaculately braided in what had immediately become the "Katniss-style". She wore a mulish expression that told Rose clearly she'd rather be elsewhere. Peeta's eyes were kind, he was not particularly tall or exceptionally good looking, but he glowed from the inside. Compared to him, Katniss and Haymitch looked exhausted and sleep-deprived. The Capitol Express had arrived long after midnight, with only close relatives allowed to greet the victors who then had been whisked away to the posh Victor's Village on the edge of town. The real celebration of their success – and District 12's rise to glory - would take stage the next day.

Amused, she watched Haymitch give Katniss a little shove to move her in the direction of the beaming mayor. Peeta followed serenely.

Rose stepped further back to let them pass.

"Katniss! Peeta! … Haymitch." The mayor's jovial face glistened with sweat as he opened the door wide, trying hard not to look into the camera. "Come in, come in, dear children! You have done us proud in the Capitol!"

He hardly spared Rose another glance and waved her to wait on the bench on the porch of the red brick building. "Miss Cumberland is of course prepared to wait. Actually she is here to discuss the school's involvement in the victor's feast tomorrow evening."

"The school?" Peeta looked at her with interest. "Are you a new teacher?"

Rose smiled. "Not so new anymore. I arrived the day after the Reaping. I am the replacement for the Andersons."

Haymitch's head snapped up. "Thatcher and Flora are gone?

"Miss Cumberland is from 12a, no less!" the mayor interjected loudly. "Who knew they had schools up there, eh? Quite a step up in the world, I say!"

Rose bit her tongue and gave him a sweet smile. "A huge step! I wrote a letter home to tell them I've got glass windows with hardly any cracks. And my very own train track right through my back yard."

Katniss snickered and stopped abruptly when Peeta wacked his elbow into her rip-cage.

Peeta tried to save the situation. "A train track? So you teach at the Seam School, not on the square, I take it."

Only the school on the Seam was close to the train tracks.

Rose nodded und offered him her hand. "Rose Cumberland."

"Peeta Mellark."

"I know."

He blushed. "I guess. ... It is rather annoying that everybody is a step ahead and knows everything about us."

"Listen," Rose ventured. "If you are not too busy, would you terribly mind to come to the school and talk to the kids?" She looked at Katniss. "Or you both?

"No."

Rose had to concede it to her - the girl shot her arrows straight.

"How about you?" she asked Haymitch Abernathy who leaned against a porch post and swigged from a small silver flask. From what she had seen of him in the background reports it was certainly not water.

"Sweetheart," he drawled. "I'd rather have my tongue nailed to that post."

The mayor coughed anxiously. "Well, I would not want to keep my three victors too long." He shot Rose a glance that plainly said he did not care how long he kept _her_ waiting.

So she sat on a bench by the sunwarmed wall and closed her eyes. Far away a dog barked. Children played a skipping game. The district flags, newly strung high in honour of Katniss and Peeta, snapped in a brisk breeze. The air smelled of coal dust and camomile flowers. The world was at peace.

When a shadow fell over her, she shivered and opened her eyes.

Haymitch loomed over her. "Your turn," he said curtly and nodded vaguely towards the office door. "Peeta softened him up for you."

Rose sighed and rose from the bench.

"Thanks." She smiled at Peeta. "Will you be gone when I come back? I'd really appreciate you coming to talk to my first graders tomorrow."

"I'll wait here," he shrugged. His eyes wandered across the square, along the shop-fronts, to the bakery. "I'm not in a hurry."

To her surprise the meeting with the mayor lasted only five minutes. Instead of complaining about the school's consumptionof water, coal and kindling wood and Rose's predecessor's 'unreasonable' demands for new books, Undersee leaned back in his swivel chair and grinned at the ceiling. A battered airframe took pride of place on his desk. Rose craned her head to see the projection - three victors and the mayor, the pale colours flickering.

"52 children," she checked her list. "They'll sing the anthem when the victors arrive. The little ones have painted pictures we will put up on the doors around the square."

"Do whatever you deem right," the mayor allowed generously. "We haven't had a victor's feast in decades. Not for 24 years, since Abernathy won, right? So whatever happens, people are going to enjoy it." His happy grin widened even more. "Lucky you! Came here just in the nick of time, eh? District 12, the place to be right now, eh? Eh?"

Rose balled a fist under the table and dug her fingernails into her palm.

"Yeah, lucky me. … So there will be a children's lunch at noon," she insisted stubbornly. "Paid for by the District."

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever. I talked it over with Nettie Mellark. She'll provide the catering at a discount. " The mayor tapped the buzzing airframe and the picture flickered back to life. "There'll be the feast in the evening, and lunch and a memorial coin for every child."

She stopped short. "A coin? You mean ... money? Real money?"

His eyes widened. "Let's stay reasonable, young woman. A medal. Bit of pretty shiny tin. For commemoration purposes only."

"Of course." She rose and shook his hand. "I'll bring the children to the square at midday."

"You do that. We'll show them folks from the Capitol that the districts know how to celebrate, eh?"

"Folks from the Capitol?" Rose asked while she plucked her jacket from the clothes rack.

"Effie Trinket! Such a delectable woman!" the mayor gushed. "The camera crews. And an additional contingent of Peacekeepers. "

Rose winced. "More Peacekeepers? Why's that?"

She gripped the rack hard to keep the creeping fear out of her voice. Something metallic dropped to the floor and she swiped it up. The rack hung decidedly loop-sided now.

"Capitol's rules. 12 is an important district now." His pride was obvious. He started the projection again – the three victors and the mayor, smiling and waving at the camera.

"One last thing, Miss Cumberland."

She froze, one hand in her pocket, the other on the doorknob.

"Tell the children to stay away from the fence. The wire will be alive for the next few days." He chuckled. "No poaching, eh? You hear me?"

"Right." Rose let out a breath. "I hear you." The Peacekeepers came because of the victory. No connection to Gale's nightly endeavours. Still, she had to make sure he stayed out of the woods for the time being.

When she stepped out of the building the sunlight blinded her for a moment.

Peeta and Haymitch sat on the steps, Haymitch quietly drinking, Peeta still gathering his courage to go home. Rose pitied him. He had survived incredible hardships - and for what? Then she reminded herself that it was Katniss' love that had kept him alive. He would live in the Victors' Village, maybe move in with the girl right away, get married. At least Rose hoped he would. His family home was obviously not where he wanted to be.

"So, what time do you want me to come to the school tomorrow?" Peeta asked when he noticed her standing in the door.

"How about half past ten?" Rose sat beside him. "That gives us enough time for a talk and questions afterwards, before we all go to lunch at the square."

"They get lunch?" Peeta perked up. "That's good. Kids are always hungry, especially those who live in the Seam. I never noticed how awfully thin they are. Kids in the Capitol are much more ... pudgy."

Haymitch snarled something unintelligibly under his breath.

Peeta just shook his head and turned to Rose. "I'll be there in time."

"Thank you. The children will be out of their mind when they hear about it."

She stood up. "Peeta."

"Miss Cumberland."

"Rose."

He smiled. "Now I'm all grown up, it seems. I won the Games and I am on a first-name basis with a teacher."

Rose turned to go, then stepped back and pressed something into Haymitch's hand.

"And this is for you. For your tongue."

She gave him a sweet smile and left.

Haymitch's brow furrowed when he stared at the rusty nail in his palm.

"What the ..."

Peeta chuckled.

"If you need help nailing it to the post, just say the word. "

/

_The next morning._

"That should be enough." Gale Hawthorne lifted the wooden bench and carried it outside, into the shady yard of the school building. He and Madge Undersee had arranged the seats to form a crude auditorium for the anxious children, who lined the front porch. There were on the look-out for today's guest of honour. From the moment they'd heard who'd visit, there'd been not chance for orderly lessons.

Gale wiped sweat off his face ."I am off to the mine."

"It's a holiday!" Rose protested. "Today is Victor's day and …"

"And the coal won't dig itself up." Gale rubbed his neck and avoided her eyes. Although she'd only known him for three weeks, Rose knew he wasn't telling the whole truth.

"Oh come on," she tried to convince him. "There will be honey cake and music and … and fireworks!"

For a moment his wistful look reminded her of a young boy's. A boy who had grown up too fast, had carried too much responsibility too soon. She had met Gale Hawthorne on her first morning in District 12, when she'd desperately tried to fix the water-pump in the yard. Water and electricity in the schoolhouse had not been turned back on yet. The young man had almost given her a heart attack, when he suddenly appeared out of the underbrush behind the garden fence, a brace of rabbits on his shoulder. He had fixed the pump, she had fixed him breakfast, and in the days that followed he'd stopped by now and then to borrow a book - or hide poached game in the earth cellar under the porch until the coast was clear and he could take it to the Hob.

She'd met his mother, Hazelle Hawthorne, a hard working woman who had lost her husband in a mine accident five years ago. Rose remembered the disaster. She'd been freshly engaged to Jacob and terrified something similar could happen in 12A. Jacob had only laughed. 12A-miners, he'd boasted, were much better and smarter than those in the District centre. She needn't worry. – Only ten months later the 12A main shaft had caved in…

Rose gripped the bowl of precious Capitol cookies the children would have as a treat. This door was closed, she admonished herself. She was not going to open it again and fall into darkness and despair.

To Gale she said: "You really should celebrate with your friends."

"It's double wages for a holiday shift," he shrugged. "You know my family needs whatever I can earn. And I'll be done before the fireworks have fizzled out, I promise. Wouldn't want to miss that."

He raised a hand in salute to his little brothers who climbed off the fence and ran to hug him.

When he disappeared beyond the trees that bordered the dirt road to the school house, Rose sighed. "Hunger is a cruel shackle."

Madge stared at her worriedly. "Don't let anybody from the Capitol hear you say that. Or my father. In fact," she covered her ears with both hands, "you should not let _me_ hear you say things like that. It smacks of…" her voice was only a whisper, "rebellion!"

"Don't worry." Rose petted her blond head. "I just have my dark minute. Life isn't all bad."

"No, it's not." Madge's gaze wandered to the road. "There is always hope."

Suddenly it all fell into place. The girl's readiness to start work so early. The way she casually remarked that her father, the mayor, had a yearn for pheasant. And if only anybody happened to kock at the backdoor with a bird, the mayor would pay a tidy sum…

"You are in love with Gale Hawthorne!" Rose burst out and immediately covered her mouth with her forearm. But the children were too engrossed in their waiting game to listen to the teachers.

Madge blushed violently.

"Oh come now, admit it!"

"Maybe. Only a little bit."

"And he? Does he know?" Rose lifted the two jugs of lemonade she had prepared.

"Gale?" Madge laughed, honestly amused, and opened the door for her. "He keeps forgetting I exist, and when he remembers, he accuses me of being wealthy. Which isn't really my fault, is it?" she added matter-of-factly.

"But I saw the two of you sit on the porch and talk."

"He took it very hard when Katniss was reaped. Of course there was nothing anyone could do. We all thought we'd never see her again. So he'd at least talk about her with someone who grieved for her, too."

"Because you and Katniss were friends?"

"Katniss doesn't really do friends," Madge shrugged. "But I knew her a little. So yes, I am probably the closest to a friend he could find."

"It must be painful for him to watch her and Peeta in every news report, in every Games review."

"You know how sometimes a girl and a boy are a couple in everybody's eyes, right from the start? 'Such a perfect fit', everybody says. 'They belong together'." Madge took one lemonade jug from Rose's hands and pushed her gently through the door. "Katniss and Gale were such a couple. They even look alike. But now there is Peeta…"

Rose understood. Gale's whole world must have shattered.

The siren signalled the change of shifts.

The children's excited chatter grew louder. Rose and Madge herded them to the benches.

"Sit down and think about what you want to ask Peeta. He should be here any minute."

A small boy with bright eyes raised his hand. "Can we ask him anything, Miss?"

"Hm." Rose pretended to think hard. "I don't know. Can you?"

He winced. "I mean… _may_ we ask him?"

A soft chuckle made her turn around.

Peeta considered the chair in the middle of the half-circle of benches and sat down cross-legged in the grass.

"My old teacher, Mr Doogal, always asked that: Can I? Can you?"

The children laughed.

"I always thought it was funny, too. Why would anybody care so much about words? And then I heard Cesar Flickerman talk. Now, that man can talk an ice block on fire just by setting his words the right way!"

Rose took a seat on the porch steps and listened in awe. She had spent considerable time pondering how to prep Peeta. She did not want the children to think there was any glory in killing or in the Games at all. On the other hand they'd all celebrate the victors today, so they needed something to be proud of.

But Peeta delivered without being prepped. He told them few details and none of the gruesome things that had happened to him and Katniss – although Rose was sure that many of the older children had been allowed to watch the Games, especially when the odds turned in favour of District 12. He talked about cunning, about strategy. How a well set trap, a clever plan, would bring better results than brute force. And how love, pure and desperate love, had saved them in the end…

Rose saw tears in Madge's eyes when Peeta finished his tale. The children applauded and Peeta bowed solemnly.

Only now she noticed Haymitch Abernathy, perched on the railing of her front porch. He was watching Peeta with a peculiar look on his face.

'Pity," Rose thought, bewildered, 'he pities the boy. But why?'

/

Haymitch watched Peeta give his speech. He remembered the boy who talked for his life in Flickerman's hot chair… The boy who made up convincing stories on the go, stories the sponsors lapped up like cream. The problem – the heart-breaking problem – was, that Peeta had started to believe his own stories and would suffer for it. Maybe not now while all parties involved were drunk with happiness and relief, but soon. Reality and the Capitol would catch up with them. These two young people thought they were survivors, when they were really the walking dead.

He had heard Katniss cry in her sleep on the train, and knew that Peeta had taken to staying up as late as possible. The boy wasn't drinking or popping sleeping pills yet. But there would be ten-thousand nights to come, each with its very own night-mare…

Haymitch patted his jacket to make sure the flask was there.

After the last question was answered and all the cookies demolished, Peeta came over to where Rose and Madge sat.

"Thank you for letting me talk to the children. I really enjoyed that."

Madge beamed at him. "You did great! I didn't know you were such a good storyteller!"

For a moment a dark cloud moved over Peeta's face. "I learned that in the Capitol." He nodded towards Haymitch. "I was told early on that a good story could be a lifeline."

The teacher – Rose Cumberland, Haymitch remembered – shook Peeta's hand, a grateful smile warming her brown eyes.

"Thank you. I have to admit, I was a little afraid of what you'd say. The children are confused anyway. They feel the fear every Reaping day, and all of them know tributes who never returned."

Haymitch closed his hand around the flask in his pocket. She had not blamed him explicitly, had probably not even concluded yet that he, and he alone, had been mentor to ALL the district's tributes for the last 24 years. And that he had failed each and every one of those 46 children before Katniss and Peeta. She did not need to lay the guilt on him. It was with him every waking hour.

"On the other hand," she continued, "they watch the reports. All the sparkle, the glory and the glamour… Hard to see through."

Interesting, thought Haymitch. How did this woman get through the very thorough brain-wash the teachers' college in the Capitol applied to all its students?

"Maybe it is more merciful to let them go into the Games convinced there is glory in there somewhere?" he growled under his breath.

The teacher met his eyes in open contention. "Maybe they wouldn't go to the slaughter if they knew the truth?"

Madge wailed. "Don't! You promised!" She looked imploringly at Peeta. "Tell her not to talk like this! Remember the Andersons."

Rose looked from Madge to Peeta. "The teachers? I was told they applied to move to 12D."

"12D is a closed pit. Has been sealed for two years," Haymitch interjected. "Only a dozen men up there, no children."

Peeta avoided Rose's eyes. "Madge and I, we overheard her father talk to my mother, on the day before the Reaping. How there was nothing they could do for the Andersons now the Peacekeepers had taken them to the Capitol. How there was proof of their… their…"

"Insurgency," Madge whispered.

Haymitch watched the teacher come to the right conclusion while Madge talked. He could read her pretty face like a book. And if he could, the Peacekeepers and the intelligence officers from the Capitol could, too.

"Madge is right," he stated, his voice carefully blank. He had known Thatcher Anderson since they were boys. "Enough with this. You should let the little buggers go to lunch."

Madge raised her hand, relieved by the change of subject. "I'll take them," she offered, smiling at Rose. "You have put a lot of work into this, and it's going to be a long day. Take a few hours off." She pointed at the big wooden box Gale and a man from Capitol Administrations had delivered this morning. "Unpack."

Rose worried her bottom lip. "Are you sure?"

Madge linked arms with Peeta. "We'll be fine. The kids will stuff their faces, Peeta will help me put up the paintings they made, and I'll keep his mother off his back. I did that since we were children."

Peeta blushed.

Haymitch stayed put on the railing while the children marched down the lane in twos, Peeta and Madge in the lead.

"Madge Undersee is a good girl," he remarked casually. "And she is right. You have to learn to keep your mouth shut."

"Easy to say when you are a victor, living in your wealthy village. No hunger and no hardship for you," she shot back. "Winter is coming, and people will starve and freeze to death while you have your brandy express-delivered from the Capitol to your nice warm mansion."

He pressed his lips together. She could not know he'd rather live in a cave in the woods or the poorest hovel than in his lonely prison in the Victor's Village.

And why was he even lingering, he thought, suddenly cross with himself. She was no beauty with her brown hair and brown eyes. Not even pretty, compared with the stunning women who threw themselves at him in the Capitol. Still, there was something…

Had the booze finally killed his last brain-cells? This was not the time to get involved with anybody. Bad enough he had Peeta and Katniss to think of. He who had always been so careful not to give Snow and his henchmen any angle…

Her hand lay flat on the wooden box. It was clear she would not open it while he was watching.

With surprising grace he slid off the railing and landed on his feet.

"You don't know nothing about me, sweetheart," he said derisively and bowed. "Do what you wish, preach rebellion. Just don't get yourself killed before the kids have learned their ABC, so they can at least spell 'Down with the Capitol' correctly."

She only bared her teeth.

He walked down the road, careful not to look back. Only when he was out of sight, he kicked a fallen tree and cursed under his breath when he almost broke his toe. He limped on towards the square while he unscrewed the flask and took a big gulp that burned away the confusion, the regret, the pain. The relief lasted only a moment, as always. So he'd keep drinking until he was numb again.

/

It took Rose all afternoon to get over Haymitch Abernathy's contempt, and even two hours into the feast she still felt raw. Again and again she composed scathing answers to his last sentence in her head, well aware it was too late even for the most scornful of them.

Why she even cared she did not know. From all she had heard about him in the last two days, Abernathy was a hopeless drunk, a social disgrace, and completely without manners. So why did she feel she had to stand up to him, to make him see her point?

She waved over the milling crowds at Madge, who sat with her father at the table of honour, next to Katniss's stylist. The girl's revelation about the Andersons had shaken her. The relocation order had not given any reason. She'd had only three days to introduce her replacement, a freshly graduated teacher, to 'her' kids and to move from the branch to the district centre. There had been no cause to question the explanation the mayor had given for the sudden vacancy.

With growing unease she remembered her first meeting with Gale Hawthorne, his barely concealed shock when he saw her – and not Mrs Anderson. He had told her over that first breakfast how chasing a flock of turkeys had taken him far from his usual track. But was that the truth or was there another reason to show up at the school at the break of dawn?

"Oh, curse Haymitch Abernathy!" she hissed when she almost stumbled over a chair while carrying a large tray with empties. She had to get him out of her mind and concentrate on the here and now.

Later she helped Mrs Mellark to serve small bowls of syrup pudding and did her best to blend out the older woman's constant muttering about the expenses the District went to for this feast. Shouldn't Peeta's mother be happy to have her son back? But at least the food - roast and white bread and pudding - was a great success with the citizens of 12. The mayor held a speech which the camera crew dutifully recorded. Later Rose overheard Effie and the chief camera man discussing how much they'd have to edit out to make it a feasible sound-bite for the Capitol news. Still, Effie seemed truly excited about the colourful images they caught.

"So many happy faces," she exclaimed at the crowd filling the square. "Dreadful clothes of course, and all that soot and grime! But they are so happy and proud of their victors! That's so cute, don't you think?"

And happy and proud they were... A string of small lanterns decorated the utility poles in front of the Justice Building. Long trestle tables and wooden benches bordered three sides of the square. A long sturdy board across some beer casks formed a bar where Peeta's father was busy. Live music played, already a dozen couples were dancing. And later there would be fireworks, courtesy by President Snow.

Suddenly Rose felt utterly alone.

She gathered empty glasses from the tables and deposited them on the makeshift bar. Mr Mellark nodded at her gratefully and pushed a bottle of beer her way. Rose shook her head, but then she called herself to order. This was a night to celebrate, even if she was not part of this community yet. One had to give thanks for two young people still alive against all odds.

She watched the dancers and smiled. Old and young, Seam and Square, united for one night without sorrow or hunger.

When she stepped back to avoid a passing couple she bumped into the bar. Glasses clanked alarmingly.

"Watch it, for Snow's sake!"

The voice slurred a bit. "This is perfectly good whiskey, you don't want to spill it."

Propped on one elbow, Haymitch leaned on the bar, eyes hidden behind chopped-off hair. For an instant Rose thought: 'He's watching, and not drunk at all."

Then she counted the glasses in front of him and changed her mind. Other men would be on their hands and knees after that much whiskey. Haymitch was still standing, which only proofed he was a seasoned alcoholic.

"I am sorry," she apologized and took a hasty sip of beer. She'd finish the bottle and go home. Nobody would miss her.

He reached across the bar and grabbed a fat stone jug to refill his glass. "Here's to the victors."

She politely rose her beer bottle and finished the toast. "Panem forever."

He stared at her, his eyes suddenly icy. Then he downed the drink.

"Not to your liking?" He waved vaguely towards the dance floor.

"No."

"No one asked you to dance?"

"No," she replied dryly. "Are you offering?"

"I could never remember the steps. Not even when I was sober."

"And when was that?" she asked sweetly.

He grinned appreciatively. "In another life."

In companionable silence they watched the scene. The bar area was a quiet island within a sea of laughter and music and chatter.

Rose finished her beer and resolutely set the empty bottle on the bar. She shrugged into her jacket.

"Well, I am off. Good night."

He lifted his head. "You are going home? All alone?"

She bristled. "It's not really your business, is it? But yes, all alone."

"No, you are not." He waved across the bar, and one of the young miners set down his drink immediately and came over.

"This is..." Haymitch's brow furrowed. "What was your name again?"

"Wash," the miner replied anxiously. "Wash Havers. You know me. My mom used to be Milli Westport before she married my father. She lived next door to your family until..."

Haymitch cut him off mid-sentence. "Young Wash here is going to bring you home, Miss Cumberland."

For the miner he clarified. "Right to her door. And you wait until she is safely inside, understand?"

"Yes, Sir ... Haymitch," The boy - because he was nothing more than a boy, even younger than Gale - nodded.

"Off with you then."

"I don't need a guard!" Rose protested hotly.

Haymitch opened a fresh bottle with his teeth, poured a generous amount of whiskey into a bowl with syrup pudding and ignored her.

She stormed out of the bar area, the young miner hot on her heels. The guts this man had! With considerable effort she slowed down to give her bodyguard time to catch up with her.

Wash's face was flushed with embarrassment when he reached her. "Sorry, Miss."

"Is he always like this?"

The miner glanced back at the bar. "He is a victor," he explained, simple as that.

"And that gives him the right to boss people around?"

"I guess." The boy shrugged. "Most times he doesn't say much. But when he does... and when he gets that edge in his voice..."

"Well, that's just plain silly!" Rose hissed. "He is a drunkard! Is he ever sober?"

Wash fell into step with her. "Hard to tell with Haymitch. Only I would not want to cross him, drunk or not."

Rose sighed. "Look, this is ridiculous. You should celebrate with your friends."

"He told me to bring you to the door."

"But my house is right over there!" She pointed in the direction of the school beyond the small neighbourhood allotments. "See? You can go back now. Nothing will happen to me."

He stood, drawn between his orders and the wish to be back at the feast. "You sure?"

"Absolutely."

With a reassuring smile she turned him around, towards the square. "Have fun, enjoy the evening."

"Okay. Thank you, honestly." He left, walking at first, then almost running in his eagerness.

Rose shook her head and looked around. There was the lamppost with the broken lights, and there was the narrow alley that cut through the gardens. She was almost home, could already see the flickering candle she had left in a jar by the doorstep, when she heard steps behind her, closing in rapidly.

She froze, listened. Hard steps. Work boots? Gale, using the noise and lights to sneak away for a spot of poaching? But she had warned him about the fence, and had seen him with his family and Katniss at the square just minutes ago...

Furtively she glanced back. Her heart sank. Not work boots - uniform boots. The Peacekeeper's white uniform appeared a dullish grey in the darkness of the alley.

"Halt."

The order came in a low voice.

Rose ponded her chances at running, but he would taser her before she could get out of the alley. So she pulled her shoulders up, kept her head down and walked on.

"I said: Halt!"

She ignored him.

He grabbed her arm. "Are you deaf, woman?"

Rose kept her eyes down. She only had to reach the school. Be firm and strict and keep him at bay until she was inside the house and could bar the door. "No, officer. Not deaf. Just tired."

He was young, his hair shorn so close to the skull it resembled a dark fuzz. The helmet had left a reddish welt where it sat at his forehead. He had stuffed the gloves into his belt, the helmet hung off the shoulder-strap. But he was armed with a taser, a baton and probably a gun.

His eyes dropped to her cleavage. "Bored with the district bumpkins?"

'Great', she thought. 'Armed man in search of amusement. Now what?'

Aloud she said: "I am tired, officer. Actually I feel a bit sick. I might vomit any minute."

It did not scare him off. He fell into step with her.

While her eyes darted left and right to find an escape, she kept walking. The light of the last houses did not reach past the gardens, and the unpaved road that led to the school lay in shadows under the trees. Only ten more meters.

When she reached the steps to the porch the Peacekeeper's baton barred her way. "I could show you a good time, show you how we celebrate in the Capitol." He reached for her and unpinned a strain of hair. "Why don't you invite me in? Let your hair down, ha ha. Tomorrow you can tell your friends you made out with a Peacekeeper. There might even be some extra rations in there for you."

Rose felt like throwing up for real. What now? What now? Her brain stuttered to a halt.

Suddenly a loud singing voice cut through the darkness, painfully off-key. "So many stars and only two moons..."

The Peacekeeper straightened. His hand shot to his belt. Rose saw him grip the baton, ready to strike.

Haymitch genially waved a bottle at them. His blue shirt was undone, the trousers stained with what Rose hoped was syrup pudding.

"Move on." The Peacekeeper snapped. "Or I'll take you to the station."

"No need, son," Haymitch replied with a happy smile. "They know me at the station. Actually they know me everywhere in the District."

"Well, I don't." A sharp snap with the baton. "Identity card. Now."

Haymitch patted his pockets and sighed. "Seems I left it at home."

"Under article 3/7 of the District code every citizen is required to carry means of identification at all times."

"Oh. Means of identify… thingy." The blond man swayed a bit and stretched out his right arm, the sleeve of his shirt rolled up. "Here's mine."

The Peacekeeper stared at the bared forearm, at the pale scar of a tracker.

His head shot up, his face suddenly in awe. "You are the 50th victor!"

"So I've been told." Haymitch gave a lazy salute. "Panem forever, and all that."

While he talked to the Peacekeeper, Rose eased around them and climbed the steps to the porch on tiptoes.

"Woa, Rosie, sweetheart..." Strong hands gripped her upper arms and pulled her back. "Let's kiss and make up…" And Haymitch covered her mouth with his and gave her a big sloppy kiss.

Rose was so shocked she could not react instantly. For a few seconds she just gave in. He tasted of syrup and cinnamon and malt whiskey. The bristles of his five-day beard scratched her skin.

When he ended the kiss, she felt dizzy and strangely disappointed. Then her brain caught up with reality. She stepped onto his foot as hard as she could. He winced but did not let go and warningly tightened his arm around her shoulders. "Smile, sweetheart, if you want to live!" he hissed.

Lazily he nodded at the Peacekeeper.

"Now be a good boy, return to the feast and leave my woman alone."

The Peacekeeper stepped back from her hurriedly. "Your woman? I ... I didn't know, Sir! Doesn't she live in the Victor's Village with you?"

Haymitch patted Rose's behind and winked at him, man to man. "Not _that_ kind of woman, if you know what I mean, son. Not the _'one'_, just the _'one right now'_." He waggled his naked ring finger at the younger man.

"Oh." The Peacekeeper blushed. "I understand."

"Good. Now let's pretend this never happened. You don't have to file a report and I don't have to complain to your superior officer."

It took the young Peacekeeper only a moment to make up his mind.

"Sir! Evening, Ma'am."

Hurriedly he turned heel and disappeared into the darkness.

Haymitch stared after him until he could be sure the man was gone. Then he let go of Rose so abruptly she stumbled against the porch.

"What is wrong with you, dammit? Which part of 'don't go alone' did you not get?" he growled.

Rose shivered. Now that the immediate threat was gone, her knees started to tremble. She gripped the railing.

Haymitch's fist hit the door jamb.

"There are more than hundred newly transferred Peacekeepers in town, and they are bored and pissed off and easy to annoy. Do you have a death wish?"

"I didn't know... I never thought..."

He raked his fingers through his hair. "Don't they have any Peacekeepers up in 12A? These bastards are dangerous. You were lucky that one was only a rooky. An older, more hardened man would have..." He spit at the floor. "I need a drink."

"A drink," she repeated, stricken by his demand. "Sorry, there's none."

"Honestly?"

She sighed and slid down along the railing post, until she sat on the wooden floor of the porch, her head between her knees to battle the nausea.

"One bottle of brandy, but I use that to soak mountain tobacco for medicine. Not even you could drink that." She winced. "I apologize. That came out all wrong."

He shrugged and sat down next to her, his legs dangling off the porch.

"What about your mysterious box?" He pointed at the now empty wooden crate at the bottom of the steps. "What was in there?"

Rose's breathing slowly calmed. She appreciated his attempt at polite conversation to give her the time to compose herself.

"Books. Shoes. My mother's good china. More books." She shrugged. "Everything I own, really. I could not take it with me when I was ordered to relocate, so I asked a friend to pack it and send it by freighter train."

The train from the district centre to the branches transported food and supplies once a week and brought back coal. It moved along fenced corridors, through mountain valleys and dark woods. She had taken the train three times - when she'd been admitted to the teachers' college in the Capitol at age 18, back home again four years later. And then three weeks ago, when she's been transferred.

"From 12A?" Haymitch asked with mild interest.

She nodded.

"How's it, up there?"

Rose shrugged. "Remember the Games, two, no three years ago?"

"The frozen wasteland?"

"12A is a bit like that. It starts to snow soon after Harvest day, and keeps snowing until May. The ground is craggy and rocky, lots of fir and spruce, no deciduous trees. No fields or gardens. Nothing much grows at that elevation. There is the mine, of course, and a few dozen houses, but no shops or markets like you have here. Four Peacekeepers who have been up there for most of their life and hardly ever wear their uniforms. Everyone else works in the mine or for the mine. About 300 people, children and all."

"I remember seeing the children from the branches on Harvest day," Haymitch mused. "They always looked defiant and exhausted."

"We from 12A had to _walk_ to the District centre for the Reaping every year," she replied defensively. "You soft townsfolk amble over in your Sunday best. But we had to start off at midnight to be there by 2 o'clock. And then walk home again, if we were spared."

She remembered those endless marches through the darkness and cold, younger children holding hands, older sibling singing songs or telling stories to cheer them up. She remembered the all-encompassing fear that took away your breath and turned your heart into a clump of ice. But that fear was true for everyone who had their name in the bowl, she assumed. Seam or square or branch – the memory of fear united them all.

"And your folks still live up there?" Haymitch asked. He kept his eyes open and his head back against the post, starring up at the stars.

"My father died when I was 18." She'd come back from her very last Reaping just in time to say good-bye. "Miner's curse."

"Silicosis." Haymitch nodded. "Hard way to go."

"Yes." Coal dust got in your lungs and caused inflammation and irreparable damage. "_Coal for me, dust for you. First you cough, then you turn blue_," she sang gently. "It's an old skipping rhyme. I never understood what it meant until I saw Dad cough up his lungs and struggle for breath."

"And your mother?"

"She died while I was at college. She never was well since my father passed away." Her mother had made everyone in 12A promise they'd not let Rose know of her death until after graduation, so Rose would not attempt to come for the funeral. Dropping out of college meant a job in the mine. Rose knew that her mother would never have wanted that for her.

"And Mr Cumberland?" Haymitch asked in a deceptively casual tone. A dark cloud moved across the moon and cast his face in shadow. "Is he going to transfer as well, now that you are here?"

Rose stood up abruptly. "No. He's not."

She wiped the sudden tears away with her sleeve. "I am tired."

He watched her unlock the door, before he got up as well.

A half mocking, half courteous bow, and he turned towards the narrow path that ran along the tracks and led eventually to the Victors' Village.

"Haymitch?" Her soft call made him halt.

He turned.

She raised a hand in greeting.

"Thank you."

/

_To be continued…_


	2. Harvest Moon

_Author's note: "I've been a moonshiner" is a traditional folk-song which exists in many variations. "Only one moon" is mine…_

* * *

**Chapter 2 – HARVEST MOON**

As summer burned away, Rose felt more and more at home in the small house next to the school building. It was only one room really – a table, a bed, a dresser, a wood stove she cooked on, and a small niche with cold box and sink. The only amenity she truly missed was a modern bathroom. Life in 12A was not luxurious by far, but they had never lacked hot water or electricity. Here, in the District centre, power-cuts were frequent, and hot water something you mostly prepared on the stove. Which she did, every other evening, enough for a tub just big enough to sit in. Still, she made the teacher's house her home, hanging bright curtains over the windows, planting the fenced garden with shoots and cuttings she bartered and begged. Children brought her small gifts at the end of term, a tablecloth, a small bag with salt, a whetstone. By the end of June she knew all their names and the circumstances they lived in.

Like her pupils Rose was required to work all summer long. All children under the age of 12 had to man the conveyor-bands and pick out small rocks from the coal. Older children helped wash the wagons, clean the miners' canteen, prepare food. In expectance of kitchen duty she had found herself in the head-engineer's office, where she happily transcribed reports and filed spreadsheets, pretty much the same work she done in 12A for many summers before and after college.

But Saturdays and Sundays were hers alone, and she spent hours just sitting on her tiny porch reading, or writing down songs she'd learned. And more and more often she thought about the fence...

In 12A there was no need for a fence. The wilderness around the small settlement was forbidding. People ventured out there only for a good reason – to hunt, to fish, to pick berries and mushrooms. The woods around the District town seemed gentler, greener, but Rose had heard stories about wild dogs and worse predators, and for the first months her fear of the unknown had been greater than her curiosity.

Gale and Katniss went into the woods every Sunday, she knew that, had seen them crawl under the electric fence in the early morning and return at dawn. The game and fowl they hunted were a welcome supplement for Gale's family. The Everdeens did not need it anymore, they could afford to buy their Sunday roast at the butcher's next to Mellark's bakery. But there were the weekday mornings when Gale showed up alone, not going out but coming back, without any prey, his eyes flickering in excitement. Whatever he was doing, it was not something he would talk to Rose about. When he saw light in her window, he knocked and she shared her breakfast of rosehip tea and coarse bread with him. They talked about his siblings, about the mine, about the seasons and the differences between the District town and the branch. She liked their morning-conversations. Gale reminded her so much of Jacob in his absolute commitment to his family.

"How do you know the fence is dead?" she casually asked one morning, while they waited for the water to boil.

Gale shrugged. "There is a quiet humming when the power is on. Katniss says the air tastes bitter but I think she's leading me on. My mother says the fence used to be charged all the time when she was a kid. People died when they tried to go under the wire. The fence is harmless, has been for years. But it keeps away the wild animals, so I guess it has its use."

"I could crawl under it, then? It is not dangerous?" Rose poured water into mugs.

"Not dangerous, only illegal," he replied, frowning. "Why would you want to go into the woods?"

"Many reasons." Rose broke the flat bread in two halves and passed one to Gale. "Strawberries, blackberries, raspberries for a start."

He laughed. "To get at the strawberries you'd have to venture deep into the forest. Katniss and I know all the patches, and there aren't any within close reach, believe me."

"Don't worry, I'll find something else then. I bet there are any number of useful plants out there. Soap root, for instance. Wild caraway."

He wasn't convinced. "You should not go alone. I'll take you, next Sunday if you want. Katniss won't mind."

Rose wasn't so sure about that. She'd watched the girl, and although Katniss went hunting almost every day, she only ever looked happy when she was with Gale. She would not appreciate to have to share her friend with a stranger.

As soon as Gale was gone, Rose changed into the sturdy boots and well-patched pants she usually wore for gardening. She put on a shirt with long sleeves, and surveyed her other equipment. Gloves. A long stick with a loop on top, fashioned from a piece of wire. She'd tied an empty flour sack to the loop, so now she had a scooper. A wide-brimmed straw hat with a veil, made from a piece of net curtain. And the most important tool: a tin bucket filled with wood shavings.

She sighed. Her Gran had been a dedicated bee keeper and Rose had helped her tend the hives from an early age on, but catching a wild swarm was something else. She'd spied the moving cloud of bees the evening before and had followed them along the fence until they'd settled in a tree not far from the railway bridge – unfortunately on the wrong side of the fence. August was late for a swarm but the weather had been unusually hot and who was she to complain?

Her gear wrapped neatly in a bundle she walked the short distance to the fence, glad for once the school was at the edge of the Seam and she had no close neighbours who'd ask questions.

Gale had been right, the fence was dead and no obstacle. She followed a narrow path, trodden by deer or hunters, until she reached the mighty maple the queen bee had chosen as the swarm's new nesting place.

"Well, just wait until you see the nice home I've prepared for you." Her Gran had kept her bees in neat wooden boxes. But any hollow container would do. Rose would settle her first swarm in an old tightly woven basket she'd found in the school's attic. She lit the smoke pot and waited. Ideally the smoke would make the bees drowsy and easy to handle.

She'd watched her grandmother move a swarm into a new skep many times. It really wasn't difficult. Still her hands shook when she reached out with the scooper. If the swarm felt threatened, hundreds of bees would drop down in a suicide mission to defend their queen. But the bees, gentled by smoke, let themselves get moved without too much resistance.

Rose swiped a few winged soldiers from her veil, and tied the sack securely. Carefully she doused the glowing sawdust in the smoke pot with water from a nearby pond. She'd pick it up later, but it wouldn't do to start a fire in the summer-dry forest grass. Her priority now was to get her precious cargo back to the school house, unnoticed if possible, and without stumbling.

She ducked under the fence, climbed a steep embankment and crossed the rail bridge. The stick that carried the bee-sack weighed heavily on her shoulder and made it difficult to navigate through the underbrush. Her foot caught in a tree-root, she stumbled and slipped. The branch she grabbed for balance broke with a dry snap. All she could think of was the sack and what would happen if she fell and the bees got free. Then she slammed into a tree trunk. Or not a trunk?

She looked up. Certainly not a trunk. She took a hasty step back. Haymitch Abernathy scowled down at her and brushed leaves off his chest.

"Sweetheart, I am no expert, but that look doesn't do anything for you." He pointed at her hat. "This thing is very ... Capitol."

Rose blushed and whipped the hat off. A bee, caught in the veil, took its chance to defend its swarm and stung. Rose squealed.

Haymitch grabbed her shoulder and forced down her collar to check the skin. "What was that?"

"Let go!" She pushed at him.

"What was that?" he repeated angrily.

"A honeybee."

He stared at her. "A bee? Are you sure?"

"I carry a few thousand of her sisters in that bag," Rose said nonchalantly and enjoyed seeing him take a quick step back. "Don't worry, they won't sting." Ruefully she rubbed the aching spot at her neck. "If you leave them alone, that is."

"I thought it was a tracker jacker." Haymitch exhaled in relief. "We had a few sightings in the last months."

"Tracker jacker?"

"Wasps, nasty beasts. You get stung, you start seeing things that aren't there. Also hurts like hell, I've been told. Three stings will kill a child."

Rose shuddered. Another muttation, no doubt. Maybe the Capitol was right, maybe these artificial creatures were created for a good reason but shouldn't they be kept contained? Once such a muttation escaped, it would breed with 'normal' species. Sometimes the result was a harmless variation, like the Mockingjay. But at other times ... She remembered rumours about poisonous caterpillars and bloodsucking butterflies in District 11.

"Well, these are honeybees. I'll transfer them to a skep, and with a bit of luck they'll settle and produce honey. One or two stings are worth it." She shouldered the scooper. "Sorry I ran you over."

He shrugged. "Nobody ever uses this path but me and ... young people who enjoy nature's beauty."

"Poachers," she concluded dryly.

The corner of his mouth twitched. "Maybe. I for my part take it as the quickest way to the Hob, and the one with the least need to talk to people I don't want to put up with. "

Haymitch watched the vibrating sack with healthy respect and kept his distance, as he walked with her back to the school. He pointed at the straw-basket she'd prepared.

"You put them in a shabby basket and you'll take away the honey they worked for all summer long. Why won't they just take off again?"

Rose carefully transferred the swarm from the sack to their new home. A bit of smoke kept the bees drowsy and the whole procedure was over in no time with no more stings.

She considered the question. "Why don't we?" she asked calmly.

Haymitch's eyes narrowed. "Are we talking insurgence again, Miss Cumberland?"

"No." Rose smiled sweetly. "We are talking bee-keeping."

"Which is illegal in District 12."

She stared at him in disbelieve. "You are kidding."

"Nope. Ask Madge, she can show you the District code. Section 15, I think: Any action suited to disrupt the economic balance – which means producing our own food and not buying Capitol provisions. And so on and on... – But don't worry. As long as you pass the Head-Peacekeeper a honeycomb now and then, he'll turn a blind eye."

Rose worried her bottom lip, suddenly upset with her own ignorance. Neither 12A nor college had prepared her for this. Life in the District town was much more restricted than she'd ever known it. Not even in the very strict teachers' college at the outskirts of the Capitol had there been so many rules and laws.

"But that's unreasonable. People need ways to supplement their rations or they'll starve."

Haymitch stooped down and watched a bee crawl out of the fly hole and take off. "There are always tesserae."

"Yeah, sure. Coming from a man who never has to worry about money, that's something!" she snapped. Haymitch buried his hands in his pockets, a gesture she'd noticed betrayed his growing anger. But she really did not care, did she?

"People just get by, even with the additional food they get on Parcel day thanks to Katniss' and Peeta's victory. But what when this year is over?" The bees felt her agitation and started to get nervous in return. She forcibly calmed down and gently scraped the last insects into the skep.

Checking the sack for any remains, she faced Haymitch. "But then again – what do you care, when another two kids go to their death, too hungry and weak to fight? You won't lose anything."

He did not answer right away, just stood there, watching the bees. When he finally looked at her, a muscle in his cheek twitched.

"Maybe you are right. I won't lose anything," he said quietly. "Maybe I _got_ nothing to lose."

Then he turned and just walked away.

Furiously she pulled off one glove and threw it at him, only to get stung by another bee which had crawled under her cuffs.

She cursed with gritted teeth. Why did it always end in a fight with that man? And why, oh why, must he always have the last word?

"On the other hand, I've got the honey." She laid a hand onto the quietly vibrating skep. "So damn you, Abernathy."

She moved the skep into the safety of a lean-to she'd constructed out of old boards and sticks. The bees didn't mind a bit of rain on their home, but school would start in two weeks and Rose didn't want curious children or a wayward football to accidentally turn over the bee-hive. The boards would not stay in the position she needed them to. Wearily she went in search of a tool box. The Andersons had not left much behind – no books certainly, no crockery or bed linen, no personal items. The attic was empty, that much she knew. The small teacher's house had no cellar. That left the school itself. She searched the shelves, the supply cabinet, and finally, giving up all hope, the crawlspace under the front porch.

There she found a long lost ball, a broken saucer, a doll's shoe. A rake, a snow shovel. No toolbox. Silly, really – why would anybody keep a tool box under the porch, where it would be difficult to reach? Her hand touched something hard. A basket. No. A bottle.

Muttering under her breath she crawled backwards and dragged the thing out into the light. A bottle, certainly, in a protective wicker cage. Her uncle Henri used bottles like that one. She sniffed the cork and wrinkled her nose. Moonshine. Vile stuff, but very valuable in a market where alcohol was hard to get. There was no dust on the bottle, so it could not have been Thatcher Anderson's secret stash. Nobody lived in the vicinity of the school, no children had played here for several weeks. So that left only ... Gale.

She sighed. First poaching, and now this. Trying to provide for his family was one thing, but producing and trafficking alcohol was something else. You only had to look at Haymitch to see what damage the stuff could do. Not to mention the danger for Gale. The code Haymitch so loved to cite held the death sentence for poaching and carrying arms, even she knew that. If bee-keeping was forbidden, then so would be moonshining.

Something clattered to the floor. Metal flashed. Rose picked the small object it up. It was surprisingly heavy, and shaped like a very flat tin of shoe polish but no bigger than a coin. Curiously she turned the lid. The tin was empty. Rose turned it in her hands, trying to figure out its use. A disk within the lid gave the tin its weight.

Tentatively she sent it spinning on the floor boards. It turned in a shining circle, over and over, until it caught on a nail. When Rose tried to pick it up, it stuck. She had to pull hard to wrench the strong magnet free.

"What the hell, Gale?" she whispered, staring at the magnet in her hand. "What are you up to at night?"

/

That night Rose barely slept. When the sky turned an inky blue, she got dressed and climbed the roof of the wood shed and lay flat. From her position she could see the forest edge, the path and the yard between school and teacher's house.

And she saw Gale, moving silently like a deer, appear from the tree line, follow the path and approach the house. She watched him crawl under the porch, and return empty handed. He gathered up a piece of kindling from her woodpile, lit it with a match and crawled back under the boards, the makeshift torch between his teeth.

She heard him curse when she silently slipped off the roof and tiptoed to the porch. The light under the boards VERLOSCH. When Gale reappeared, sucking on an obviously burned thumb, Rose leaned against the porch railing. Arms crossed, she looked him over.

"Care to explain?" she asked in a friendly voice.

Gale stared at her as if she were a ghost.

"Are you trying to burn my house? Or have you lost something?" She held up the flat disk. "A magnet maybe?"

The young miner's hand shot out to snatch the object, but Rose was faster.

"Explain," she demanded, not so friendly anymore.

"How do I know you aren't going to sell me out? You may be a Capitol spy."

Rose snorted. "Yeah sure." She passed him the magnetic tin. "The Andersons were arrested for insurgence. Are you part of this?"

"Maybe," Gale admitted. "The less you know, the better."

"So that I can plead innocence? When they find strange things under my porch, do you really think they'll believe me when I tell them they are not mine?"

He blushed. "I am sorry. I should have moved them once Thatcher and Flora ... I should have found a new place."

Rose sat down wearily. What was she to do? "So there really was a conspiracy?"

"I don't know." At her inquiring look he stuffed the disk into his shirt pocket and sat down next to her. "There were messages. We passed them on. Or rather, Thatcher did. I saw him once when I came out of the forest."

Rose did not understand.

"The train." Gale sighed and rake a hand through his dark hair. "The tin is magnetic. It contains the message and can be hefted on to a carriage when the coal-train has to slow down at the bridge."

"So the train takes messages out and brings new one in. And they go to...?"

"I have no idea." Another stern look from Rose. "No really! Thatcher always said it was safer that way. I only handled them a few times when he was unavailable, and later, when he was ... taken."

"So you place them under my porch, and somebody picks them up," Rose concluded.

"Not anymore." He shook his head determinedly. "I'll find another cubby hole."

"Wouldn't that break the chain? How would the next man know where to pick up the messages?

"Thatcher told me how to let him know."

She stood up and looked around the yard. "Not under the porch. A child might crawl under it to look for a ball. But I just know the perfect place." She nodded towards the bee hive. "With a few thousand guards."

Gale chuckled in mirth when she showed him where to hide the tin. "This is perfect. They'll be asleep at night, won't they?"

"As long as you don't scare them. Better let the next man know how to handle the skep, or he'll suffer the consequences." Rose crossed her arms. "Breakfast?"

He checked the sun and shook his head. "I must run or I'll be late for the morning shift."

"Wait." Rose held him back. "What about the bottle? Is that part of your secret operations, too?

"The bottle? Oh, you mean the whiskey!" Gale slapped his forehead with his palm. "No, it's Haymitch's, moonshine from one of the stills in 12B. Ripper at the Hob gave it to me. I was supposed to deliver it, but I was late for the train last night. So I just hid it with the tin."

"I'll give it to him, if you want," Rose offered. "When he passes by next time."

Gale grinned in relief. "It's already paid for and all. Ripper says to drink it slowly. There won't be any for another week. "

"Just as well." Rose placed the bottle on the steps. "The man is constantly drunk, it seems."

Gale's face fell. "My mother says he's so deep in a bottle he can't get out anymore. And Katniss told me he got really sick when the stores were sold out and the next contingent somehow delayed. She could hear him scream and rant at night. Really scared Prim."

Rose watched him leave, hurrying to the mine, shoulders drooping. She knew how it felt to step into the elevator and ride down into the bowels of the earth, to work in darkness and artificial light while above the sun shone and the blue sky gleamed. She'd never been part of the work force, but like all adults of 12A she'd been assigned to a rescue team that trained regularly. Medics, fire experts, engineers, all prepared to save lives when a mine shaft collapsed or an explosion cut off miners deep down. Fat load of good that training had done them, she thought, and forced the memory of the clinging darkness back where it belonged, into the deep recesses of her mind.

She was alive and she would not waste this gift.

She'd spend the day on the porch, watching her bees and cherishing the summer sun.

/

Rose saw neither Gale nor Haymitch for a while, and forgot about the bottle of moonshine. After a few days she stumbled over it when she swept the porch. For a split second she considered pouring the content down a drain. But who was she to judge other people? Haymitch Abernathy was a grown man and if he decided to drink himself into an early grave there was nothing she could do about it. So she just covered it with a bucket. One of these days she'd see Haymitch walk down the path to the Hob. Until then the bottle was out of sight and well hidden.

So was the magnetic tin. Rose opened it candidly once or twice when she had to care for the bees, but the tin was empty. She imagined Gale, lying in wait, wrapped in shadow. The whistle in the distance, the vibrating train tracks. Where would the tin be least obvious when attached to the carriage? What message would it contain? And – whose message?

She'd watched the new hiding place for a couple of nights through the curtains of her hut, but nobody had shown up. Gale might have told the truth when he said that he did not know who the next man in the chain was. But somehow the system worked.

August's heat had passed, and a few rainy days had cooled the air to a first brisk taste of autumn. When Rose walked through the light drizzle along the narrow alley through the allotments, she saw women harvesting vegetables and roots. Most of it would be dried or canned for the winter, but tender raspberries and sugar snaps had to be eaten right away. By the time she reached the square, her basket was filled with gifts, and her mind with stories: A TV-team was expected to film the start of Peeta's and Katniss' tour. The doctor who had his practice next to the Justice Building refused to treat Seam children if parents did not pay in advance. Next parcel day was rumoured to bring not only food but also clothes and shoes. Well, one would see.

The window of Mellark's bakery was a sight. Small sugar cookies, star- and moon-shaped. A cake, delicately painted in the rich colours of fall. Rose saw one of the Mellark boys behind the counter and heard their mother give a delivery man a good talking to.

Rose kept out of sight. Mrs Mellark might be a shrewd business woman and a council member, but her brusque demeanour did not invite small talk. And Rose really could not stomach the way the other woman treated her son. Mothers and sons, Rose thought, a bit sad. Hazelle Hawthorne loved her kids – yelled at them when they stepped out of line – but worked tirelessly to keep them fed and clothed and loved them unconditionally. Nettie Mellark's sharp tongue cut into her sons' soul every time she ridiculed them. More than once Rose had seen Peeta wince when his mother made it clear that her youngest son – a boy who had just won the Hunger Games – was worthless and simply not good enough. The woman did that to her other sons, too. Sometimes even to her husband, kind Mr Mellark. But never as cutting as with Peeta.

So it was better to pass by the shop. Rose could not afford the cakes anyway. With a longing look at a particularly ornate confection she made her way to the Hob, where things were not as prettily decorated but much cheaper – only to run into Peeta.

He had a paint smear across his cheek. His pockets bulged with ... stuff.

"Could I interest you in a spool of twine?" he offered in a low voice. "Or a quarter pound of hob nails?"

Gale had told Rose with grudging respect that both Katniss and Peeta tried to spread their patronage all over the Hob without letting it smack of charity. Which in return meant that they both had more nails, dried fruit, shoe leather and soap than they'd need for the rest of their lives.

Rose laughed. "Got any chalk?" The school term was about to start, and the mayor had informed her that both primaries, in the Seam and on the Square, would have to do without chalk or new books. By now Mayor Undersee's eye started to twitch when he saw her wait in front of his office.

Peeta emptied his pockets. No chalk, but a compass and several erasers. Rose accepted them with open delight as well as the offer of a mug of milky tea at one of the stalls.

Trade was brisk today. The additional food people received on Parcel Day had freed a few coins for other purchases – shoelaces, candles, medicine. Ripper's stall hosted a rowdy crowd of red-faced men. Rose recognized Cray, the Head Peacekeeper, among them. As long as he participated in the drinking, the Hob would be left in peace.

"Look, there is Katniss," she pointed out to Peeta.

His head turned instantly, searching the crowd. Then he averted his eyes with great care and busied himself with his mug.

Katniss and Gale entered one of the makeshift departments built of burlap and plywood, and left a few minutes later, relieved of two rabbits and several birds. Someone – probably not on the Seam, but in the Merchants' quarter – would have rabbit stew for dinner. The stew Katniss purchased at Greasy Sae's stall probably contained neither rabbit nor fowl, but nobody ever asked, in fear of the answer. The two sat on a wooden crate and shovelled food into their mouths, half-starved after a long hunting trip.

Gale saw Rose and raised a spoon in greeting. She smiled. Katniss noticed Peeta and gave him a polite nod. The situation was beyond awkward.

When Madge appeared, a paper wrapped parcel in her hand, Peeta relaxed visibly. The girl beamed at him. "I'm having a new dress for the Harvest Festival, but my mother's seamstress was out of ribbons. I said I'd try the Hob, and they all laughed at me. And now look!"

She opened one end of the parcel. A rainbow of silken ribbons spilled out, and Peeta laughed in pure joy.

"Mique Callow traded it in for a chicken from a woman in 12B."

Peeta wrapped ribbons in different shades of blue around his finger, but looked somewhere else. Rose followed his gaze. Katniss, of course... The girl queued at Ripper's stall, good-naturedly accepting the reveller's banter. She passed over a hand full of coins and carefully packed four bottles of white liquor into her hunting bag.

Rose frowned. "Four bottles? I don't assume it is for herself, but it's a bit much, even for Iris's medicines…"

"Not for her," Peeta murmured absentmindedly. "For Haymitch."

"Oh." Rose bit her lip.

"There are times when he … when he is in a dark place. I am not going to withhold the only remedy." Peeta's calm voice allowed not further discussion.

"Pity he is such a recluse. On the other hand, he is not easy to be around when he is drunk," mused Madge. "My mother says he was quite a looker, when they were young. A bit arrogant but very smart."

"Still true," Peeta said calmly.

"The 'arrogant' part or the 'smart' part?" asked Rose.

His mouth twitched. "Both, I guess. Take my advice – never play chess with Haymitch Abernathy."

"My mother says, he could have been an engineer. Or a geologist. But with the Games and all…" Madge wrinkled her nose. "And he really has no people skills at all."

"Oh but he has," said Peeta. "Only not the way you'd expect."

"You should see him at the Harvest Ball! He stands in a corner, stares everybody down who have the nerve to talk to him, and drinks all spirits he can get his hands on. And as soon as my mother enters the room, he leaves! Just like that."

"I can only say he steered us through dangerous waters in the Capitol." Peeta deliberately changed the subject. "About the Harvest Festival," he said, "Did you ask your father?"

"He won't let me go," Madge sighed. Then her face lit up. "Rose, are you free the night of the full moon?"

"Ah, good thought!" Peeta approved. "Are you free, Rose? It's the night after tomorrow."

"What is?"

"We planned something for the Hawthorn children and Prim. Usually people in the Seam celebrate Harvest with a bonfire by the water, down by the river. Since Katniss and I will be on tour for the next three weeks, and will have to attend the mayor's Harvest Ball on our return, the kids would miss out on their big night. So we thought, why not do it now?"

"Katniss knows a place beyond the fence, and we'll have a fire and whish-boats." Madge bit her lips. "That is … _they_'ll have it. I won't be there."

"Katniss' mother is not too pleased with the idea, either. Which is rather ridiculous if you considered what Katniss went through, and that she spends days with Gale in the woods."

"It's probably the combination of bonfire – full moon – girls and boys most parents worry about," said Rose mildly. "But yeah, why not? I doubt I'll be invited to the Harvest Ball, so this might be my only chance to celebrate the Harvest Moon this year."

/

Haymitch looked out over the dark waters of the lake. It wasn't even a lake, more a pond, but it would do for the children, Katniss had pronounced. No need to drag them through the snow for miles to the lake her father had taught her to swim in.

'Small blessing,' he thought. The cold from the ground seeped into his winter boots, the knitted cap did nothing against the freezing winds sweeping down from the mountains. It was a perfect night to sit by a warm stove with a book and a fresh bottle of white liquor. But fate had it seen fit he'd spend it bundled up in his warmest sweater and coat, watching the Everdeen and Hawthorn offspring trying to light a fire by rubbing two sticks together.

Chilled out and impatient, he let a box of matches drop into the small pile of sticks Katniss had compiled to teach the kids how to start a fire from scratch. "Do me a favour, sweetheart, and get it over with, before we all die from hypothermia."

She grinned at him, quite an exception these days. He knew she was nervous because of the tour which would kick off in two days. Anxiety always turned Katniss into a grumpy shrew. Peeta usually bore the brunt of it, and would have to do so again on tour, Haymitch thought. Well, better the boy than him.

A rustle in the brush wood made Katniss jump up. Talk about anxious.

Haymitch recognized Peeta, the blond Undersee girl and the pretty teacher. She carried a large bag, and Peeta was burdened with blankets he now handed out to the children. Rose took in the surroundings – a small fire, a few logs to sit on, the dark expanse of the water, the full moon. She smiled in delight although her teeth chattered.

"This is lovely."

Haymitch relieved her of the bag and set it behind a log into the snow. "Brought any bees?"

"Too cold for them to sting," she said. Rubbing her arms and stomping her feet she admitted: "Same goes for me."

He unceremoniously made Vick and Rory share a blanket and lopped the remaining one at Rose, who caught it with a grateful smile. Wrapped tightly in the warm woollen cover, she sat next to him on the log and watched Katniss coax tiny flames towards a bonfire.

"Listen," she said in a low voice. "I don't know why we always end up fighting. But can we have a truce, only for tonight?"

He shrugged. "Since I am known for my charming personality it must be something about you." He held up both hands in a gesture of surrender. "Truce, ok? I might need your help to get through this with my sanity intact. There'll be songs. And wish-boats. "

"Sober?" she asked, pity in her voice.

"Unfortunately."

"So why are you here?" she asked cheerily. "I for my part assume the official position of a chaperone to Misses Everdeen and Undersee whose parents let me know that they'll hold me responsible if anything happens to their daughters." When he smirked, she raised one eyebrow. "I don't know who I am more afraid of – Iris Everdeen or the mayor."

"Well, I'm here so nobody gets killed." Gale and Peeta hardly acknowledged each other, and Katniss was blissfully unaware of the jealousy she caused. But it was well known she'd spent every weekend since her return with Gale – and hardly any time with Peeta. With the tour only days away, Haymitch would not risk the awkward peace between his victors to fall prey to raging teenage hormones.

Soon they sat by a now mercifully warm fire and ate cheese buns and venison sausage, thanks to Mellark's bakery and the Hob respectively. Gale's brother Rory took it on him to tell the traditional story about the origins of the Harvest Festival. How in the Dark Days, when food was so sparse people feared they' not see another spring, the remaining Districts had shared whatever provisions were left for one last meal. And then they had surrendered to the Capitol. But they had survived.

Haymitch saw Gale grit his teeth, and Madge Undersee gnaw her thumb-nail as always when the rebellion was mentioned. Prim, unaware of the tension, suggested they sing the Harvest song – which they did, although without Haymitch, who point blank refused.

"It's one of my favourite songs," said Madge happily.

Haymitch's eyes met Rose's. The girl obviously did not know that the Harvest song told the same story of civil unrest and oppression Rory had brought up. Only the verses spoke of 'the reaper bringing in the harvest, cutting all the stalks', not 'Capitol soldiers mowing down insurgents'.

"We sing it every year at the Harvest ball. My mother plays the piano if she is well enough, and my father accompanies her on the violin."

"I could do with a violin," sighed Rose. "But I had to leave mine behind in 12A, and they never got around to sending it to me." She picked a couple of spoons from the bag behind her and slapped them against her palm. "Well, let's try it this way."

Fascinated, Haymitch watched her adjust the spoons, concave sides facing in and a finger between the handles to space them apart. When she turned her wrist and hit her thigh, it produced a sharp silvery tune. She started slow, tentatively, but soon the rhythm became faster and more complicated.

It was a funny song about a clever donkey and his stupid master. Prim laughed out loud when the last verse saw the man carrying the donkey up the hill because he had lost three bets in a row.

Peeta applauded when Rose finished. Katniss picked up a spoon and studied it with knitted brows. Gale asked for a song from the Seam.

"I know 'On the Hill' and 'The Girl from the Seam', and of course the 'Meadow-Song'." She smiled at Vick, whose class had introduced her to the lovely tune which named all the flowers in the meadow. "But there is one I'd really like to learn."

She turned to Haymitch. "It goes something like this: _So many stars and only two moons…_"

"One moon, not two! Katniss can sing that one," Prim piped up. "She knows all the words."

Her sister hugged her knees and shook her head. Gale cuffed her shoulder. "Now don't be shy, Catnip." He nodded at Rose appreciatively. "She's a great singer. Really talented."

"I'll let you know that my talent is fashion design. Velvet, silk and that other stuff..." Katniss scoffed. "Ah yes, Chantilly lace."

"If they could only see you now," Gale teased her, pointing out the battered hunting jacket and knitted muffler she wore. "Miss Trinket would faint."

Katniss covered her mouth in mock horror.

Peeta's calm voice cut through the banter. "Will you sing, Katniss?"

The girl's laughter died. She pressed her lips together, and Haymitch remembered how she'd sung to a severely injured Peeta in that cave in the arena. He saw Gale's hands flex, saw Mage unhappily worry her thumb. So many ties between all of them. Friendship, kinship, companionship. And love, maybe different kinds of love, but still love – which made everything so much more difficult.

"I'd sing it myself, but I only know that one line." He said it loud enough to break the sudden tension.

Rose laughed easily. "So that really was cutting it close?"

"Very close."

Katniss frowned. "What are you two talking about?"

"Long story," Haymitch shrugged. "Sing us a song, sweetheart."

And Katniss sang.

_There is only one moon and so many stars,_

_And this is my promise to you._

_A tear for every star and my heart for the moon,_

_My love will always be true._

Haymitch watched Rose – how she drummed the rhythm on her knee, how her lips soundlessly repeated the words. He bet she'd know the song by heart once Katniss had finished it.

_Times will turn and ways will part,_

_When you are gone, look at the stars,_

_When you are gone, look at the moon,_

_And know that you still hold my heart._

He remembered his mother singing the song when she prepared dinner. Was this a conspiracy to make him even more miserable by dredging up painful memories?

Peeta, always sensitive to the moods around him, applauded and asked Rose to sing a song from 12A. She complied readily and reached for the spoons. Haymitch snorted when he recognized the tune. The gall the woman had!

_I've been a moonshiner for many a year,_

_I spent all me money on whiskey and beer._

_I'll go to some hollow and I set up me still_

_and I'll make you a gallon fer a ten shillin bill._

She was a good singer, he had to give her that. Her warm voice rose and encompassed the small group around the fire. A flick of the wrist and the spoons led into the next verse. This time Haymitch joined in, much to his own surprise.

_I'm a rambler, I'm a gambler_

_I'm a long ways from home._

_And if you don't like me well leave me alone._

His baritone was rough and untrained. He might be a drunkard but he took pride in drinking silently. But the strong male voice gave the sweet tune a much needed bitterness. Rose looked straight at him and winked. Haymitch stifled a laugh, and finished the last lines with her.

_I'll eat when I'm hungry and I'll drink when I'm dry,_

_And if moonshine don't kill me I'll live till I die._

In the silence that followed, Posy's small voice added a disapproving: "This is stupid. Moonshine is just pretty silver light. It won't kill you."

Haymitch nodded gravely. "Glad to hear that."

Gale laughed and ruffled his sister's dark head. "I think it's time for the boats."

He disappeared in the shadows beyond the fire. Haymitch added another log to the flames, when a small hand tugged on his sleeve.

"Who are you going to kiss?" whispered Gale's sister excitedly.

"Nobody." He frowned at the small girl.

She frowned right back at him. "That's not nice. You are supposed to!"

"Kiss?" asked Rose, utterly confused.

"Once your wish-candle goes out, you are supposed to kiss somebody to seal the wish. And then there'll be presents!" explained Posy.

"Presents?"

"Only for children who have been good all year," Madge reminded her in a stern voice.

Gale and Katniss were passing out little boats made of tree bark, each with a tiny candle stump.

"Don't you celebrate the Harvest Moon up in 12A?" asked Madge.

"Oh, we do, of course." Rose looked up at the stars – with sudden longing, thought Haymitch. Longing for a place? A person she'd lost? "Only not the way you do. Nobody told me about presents. I did not bring anything, sorry."

"Our mom said we must not make you feel awkward if you don't know our…" Posy faltered, searching for the word. "Custards?"

"Customs," her older brother corrected smiling. "None of us has ever seen custard, have we?"

"Greasy Sae says custard tastes like honey, only better." Rory pursed his lips. "But I don't know what honey tastes like, anyway."

Rose smiled and pulled the little girl's braid. "I did not know about the presents. But guess what – I brought something else." She took a large baking tin out of the bag she'd carried. "We'll set this on the fire, and when you've made your wishes, you'll get a taste of honey."

Posy tried to get a glimpse of the content of the baking dish but Gale lifted her up and carried her away, head-down and giggling.

Haymitch hunkered down to help Rose make a bed of white hot charcoal for the dish. It looked like they'd have apples, drizzled with honey and sprinkled with parcel-day nuts. While he watched the fire, Katniss passed Rose a knife so she could scratch her initials into the piece of bark which would carry her candle.

"I guess, there is no lake up in your mountains? So no wish boats."

Rose shook her head ruefully. "No. They light a bonfire though, usually as high up as they dare climb. The boys shoot burning coals at the sky with slingshots. It looks like falling stars."

"But the Peacekeepers?" Katniss asked. "What if they see the fires?"

Rose smiled in reminiscence. "Our Peacekeepers have been with us for as long as I remember. They eat with us in the communal kitchen, they hunger with us when provisions don't add up. A placement in 12A means relegation. Once you are transferred, you stay there for the rest of your career."

Haymitch contemplated a life where the Peacekeepers were your neighbours, friends even. He could remember when the situation had been much worse than it was now, with public whippings on the square for small misdemeanours, and executions for what the code considered crime. Things had changed for the better since Cray held his post, although people hated the Head Peacekeeper for abusing his power. Too many young women had found their way into his bed to earn a few coins for their families or secure better treatment for a friend or relative in the pillory.

Even now, threat was always present. Yes, there was law and order, some kind of peace, but it was a fragile thing and every Reaping Day the fracture-lines got deeper. Someday soon a mother would not let her child be taken, a father would lash out at the Peacekeeper who led his son or daughter up the steps of the Justice Building. They had no weapons, only the bows and old rifles they used for hunting. They had no training, and they still had too much to lose. There would be blood on the square.

He shook his head when Gale offered him a wish boat. "I'll pass."

Madge's blond head bobbed up. She'd helped Posy to inscribe the girl's boat. "You should make a wish," she insisted. "It might come true."

"Yeah, it might."

He saw a flash of understanding in Katniss' eyes. She knew – she was still so young and yet she knew what utter bleakness lay before them. He had to turn away, pretend to watch the boats Gale and Peeta set on the water.

"How is one supposed to know which boat is which?" Rose asked when all boats were afloat.

"You got to keep an eye on them. And don't forget, when the candle dies, make your wish and kiss someone," explained Madge.

"And you must not tell your wish, only the person you kiss," added Gale's brother Rory from the wisdom of his twelve years. "Mom says, best kiss someone who can fulfil the whish. Saves time."

Katniss laughed and exchanged a glance with Gale. It was clear who'd be kissing whom this evening. Haymitch watched Peeta flinch. 'Well done, Katniss,' he thought. 'Why don't you just shoot him and end his misery.' – And the tour only days away…

The current pushed the boats out quickly, tiny flickering lights in the darkness.

"No whish?" Rose's voice was low, just loud enough for him to hear. The children ran along the shore and Gale, Peeta, Katniss and Madge followed them.

Haymitch blew out a breath. "No whish. Not on a candle in a doomed piece of bark, anyway."

She chuckled and rubbed her hands to keep warm. "It is a nice custom, admit it. It gives them something to hope for."

"And that's a good thing?"

He did not mean his voice to betray his inner turmoil, but she must have sensed it. She tilted her head and looked him straight in the eyes.

"Without hope, there'd be only darkness."

"Maybe that's all there is." He could not face her. He needed a drink, or two. He needed to get away from this place in the forest, from these children with their dreams. Dreams he'd see wither and die.

Rose looked out at the lake, where a few candles still flickered. "Four years ago, on Harvest night, my husband was on duty in the mine. He'd filled in for a friend who wanted to be with his kids at the bonfire." Her voice trembled. "There was an explosion. They never found his body. … So yes, I know about the darkness. But there is always hope."

She exhaled shakily. "I think my candle just went out. Should I kiss you now?"

He closed his eyes. Remembered the kiss he'd forced on her to save her from the Peacekeeper. How her lips had opened in surprise, let him in. How her warm body, her soft breasts, had felt against his chest. The scent of her hair... – All he'd ever get, all he'd allow himself.

"Better not." For once, his voice obeyed, did not betray his feelings.

She shrugged, hurt by his brusqueness. "Oh well. I guess, there is someone else who needs a bit of kindness."

She walked down to the lake shore, left him standing alone by the fire, an outsider watching the scene. Katniss had just kissed Gale, Madge had kissed a giggling Posy, and Peeta suddenly found himself in a warm embrace. He laughed in surprise when Rose's lips touched his cheeks. Haymitch saw her whisper something in Peeta's ear. Her wish, no doubt.

It meant nothing.

It changed nothing.

/

When all the wishes were made and all boats gone, they ate the baked apples and Posy tasted honey for the first time in her life. She liked it, thought Rose fondly, and very much so, judging by the enthusiasm she licked her fingers with. Presents were exchanged – socks for Vick and Rory, a silk hair-ribbon for Prim and a little knitted fox for Posy. Then Gale and Katniss stomped out the fire and covered the pit with sand and snow.

The full moon made it easy to find the path back to the forest edge and the fence. The children chattered, Madge and Peeta talked about former Harvest nights. Katniss candidly held hands with Gale who carried his sleeping sister, her dark head nestled against his shoulder.

Rose's heart went out to them. She'd only this evening comprehended that Katniss was _not_ in love with Peeta. It had shaken her to see Gale and Katniss together – how painful must it be for Peeta? And for Madge who carried a torch for Gale so bright her eyes lit up whenever she looked at him?

"Life is not fair," she murmured when Gale held up the barbed wire to help his siblings slip through the fence.

Only Haymitch heard her. His fair eyebrows rose in silent question.

"Just look at them." She pointed at the small group negotiating the supposedly deadly fence. "In a just world, Peeta and Katniss would be together. Not because that's the story which saved their lives, but because they are good for each other. And Gale would fall in love with Madge who is everything he is not."

"Nobody ever said life was fair," Haymitch replied gruffly and held the dish while she climbed through the fence. "In four days Katniss, Peeta and I will be on a train. By then they'll be madly in love, and if I have to beat it into them! They'll be deliriously happy together whether they want it or not."

Rose took the dish from him. "For how long? How long can one live a lie?"

The wire snapped back. Haymitch hissed in pain when a rusty barb pierced his thumb and tore the flesh. Blood dripped onto the snowy ground. Before he could hide the injured hand in his pocket, Prim noticed the blood.

"This looks bad," she worried. "You may need stiches."

He pulled the hand back swiftly. "Nope. All I need is a drop of liquor. … For internal use, you understand. And a band-aid."

"You should see our mother," Prim insisted and called her sister for help. "Katniss, tell him not to be such a coward."

Katniss studied the wound, called for Peeta to consult him on possible treatments, asked Madge for a clean handkerchief. Haymitch gritted his teeth.

Finally Rose took pity on the man. "I'll make sure he cleans the wound." She gently freed his wrist from Prim's anxious grasp. "Trust me, I trained as a medic. You all go on, put Posy to bed and see Madge home before her father gets too nervous." She hugged Vick and Rory and smiled at Gale who looked from her to Haymitch, suddenly tense. "Give my regards to your mom, boys."

Gale passed Posy on to Katniss and dug in his bag. He passed Haymitch a small flask. "Happy Harvest Moon. This is from Katniss and me, the real stuff." He uncorked the flask and offered it to Haymitch who took a deep gulp and sighed in relief.

"I'll wake you in time for the tour," Katniss promised.

To a chorus of 'good nights' Rose steered Haymitch by the elbow down the path until they were out of sight.

She let out a sigh. "How bad is it?"

He was pale but shook his head. "I'll survive."

"No doubt." She cocked her head and gave him a pitying look. "Had a bad night?"

Haymitch shrugged and fumbled with his left hand to tighten the handkerchief that stilled the bleeding. "I've had better ones."

"It may get worse. Remember the night when you asked me for a drink, and I told you I only had arnica tincture? Mountain tobacco, works a treat on cuts like this."

He winced.

"Chicken?"

He bared his teeth and took another sip of whiskey. "Want some?"

Rose shook her head. She did not like whiskey at the best of times. 'One of us better stay sober,' she thought.

They walked through brush and birches, all covered with silver pelt. Tiny icicles caught the moon light and glistened. There was no sound but the crunch of frozen snow under their boots. It felt good to just walk. Rose glanced up at Haymitch. His fair hair and beard looked as silvery as the ice. She felt a sudden burst of sympathy. This very private – and contentious – man had shown a great deal of emotion tonight.

"What?" he asked when he felt her gaze.

"Nothing."

Haymitch's hair glittered with snowflakes. "So you are a widow," he said abruptly.

"Yes." It still felt like a punch in the stomach whenever she became aware that it was true, that Jacob was really dead and would never hold her hand again.

"I am sorry."

"Me too," she said. "So very sorry."

"What was he, a miner?"

She shook her head and buried her cold hands in her sleeves. "An engineer. There was an escape shaft, very deep, very old, and there'd been talk of shutting it down. Jacob knew the miners needed that shaft, so he worked hard to keep it running. He was alone, probably surveying or something, when a roof collapsed. Rescue teams were sent down." For a moment she saw the bright flashing lights, heard the ear-piercing wail of the sirens calling all teams to their stations. "They tried to dig through the rubble, but could not find him. Then the firedamp exploded." The fiery wave of burning gas had rushed through the shafts and tunnels, had destroyed the elevator and the emergency stairs. More tunnels had collapsed.

Rose took a deep breath of icy air. All this was in the past, long gone, and any regret futile. "It was a disaster. We lost not only Jacob that night, but two rescue teams." One of the medics had been Jacob's younger brother, barely sixteen.

Haymitch just nodded, did not dig for gory details, and she was thankful for that.

"We were only married for a year." She still wore her wedding ring, and felt it right now, cool against her skin. "Engaged at 22, married at 23 and a widow at 24. But at least we had that year."

She could get used to this, she thought. Walking through the night, talking about Jacob – almost like a soliloquy and yet not alone...

"He was the One." Her voice held a calm conviction. "He was good and kind and funny. I trusted him with all my heart."

And that was that – her marriage in a nut shell. She'd trusted Jacob. She'd known he loved her, knew it still. And would love him back until the day she died.

When they reached the house Haymitch insisted on waiting on the porch, while she fetched the disinfectant. He gave her no time to place her first-aid kit and a lantern on the small table, but took the arnica bottle with his left hand, removed the cork with his teeth in a well-practised motion and went to douse the wound in alcohol.

Rose took hold of the bottle before he could spill the content all over the porch. "Let me."

"I am fine."

"You are not. Don't be ridiculous." She used clean snow to wash out the deep cut, then soaked a piece of linen with the yellowish tincture.

Haymitch's nose wrinkled. "A waste of perfectly fine drink," he pointed out holding the bottle against the porch light.

"It's either that or Iris Everdeen's needle."

He shut up immediately. Rose started to tab at the wound. To divert him from the stinging pain when the cloth came in touch with the raw flesh, she kept talking.

"So, what is your talent? Katniss' is fashion design… Well, pretend design." She turned his hand towards the light. "Peeta paints. What do you do?"

"I am a gifted drinker," he replied in a deadpan voice.

Rose chuckled. "I mean, when the cameras are on."

"I play chess. … Ouch!" He frowned at her. "If I wanted somebody to dig in my hand with sharp instruments I'd ask Doctor Prim."

Rose showed him a tiny bit of rusty wire she'd grabbed with the pincers. "Are your tetanus shots up to date?"

"I am a victor, what do you think?"

"Even victors die from blood poisoning."

"Not if the Capitol has a say. As long as you are a tribute, they do their best to kill you. But once you are a victor …" His voice was brittle with contempt.

Rose waited but he would not finish the sentence. Well, at least she did not have to worry about tetanus. If she cleaned and bandaged the wound, he'd be fine, even without stitches.

"So chess, huh?" she asked. "Real chess or pretend chess?"

"I had not mentor, so I thought why not name a talent I really have? So much easier to follow through with."

"And if you had had a mentor what would it have been?" She started to wrap a clean bandage around the thumb and wrist.

"Juggling. Or darts. Hell, fireworks even. The cameras likes action and colour. What they don't like is a chequered board with a pawn moving every other hour." He relaxed when the pain in his hand slowly subsided.

"Your film team must have hated you."

"You have no idea."

Rose secured the bandage. "There you go. Good as new." She gave him a gentle tap on the cheek. When he froze and backed off, she blushed in sudden embarrassment. What had she done?

"Sorry. I'm just so used to little boys scraping their knees." Avoiding his eyes she gathered her first-aid kit. "There is a bottle of moonshine under that bucket by the rail." She pointed him in the right direction. "Gale asked me to pass it on to you, but I forgot. Ripper sent it." Her voice lost its calm. "You should not drink this stuff. It's vile. You could go blind."

He still didn't say anything while he turned over the bucket and took a good sniff at the cork.

"You are right."

In relief she gave him a lopsided grin. "Am I?"

"Why don't I leave it here, under the bucket, as a kind of safety net? Only in case of a severe dry spell?" He raised the flask Gale had given him. "Tonight is covered."

She nodded eagerly. "As long as it is hidden, so the kids won't find it. "

"We don't want the little buggers to get drunk at school, do we?" He toasted her with the flask and covered the moonshine bottle with the bucket.

Rose laughed.

/

She never saw how he switched the two corks. How his fingernail split the moonshine-bottle's cork. How he hid the tiny rolled piece of paper in the palm of his hand and stoppered the flask with the now empty cork.

She waved good night, and he pocketed his flask and waved back.

When she closed the door, he trudged along the path, impatient to find a clearing where the light of the moon would allow him to read the message.

The paper slip was not longer than his little finger. It only contained four words – THE BOARD IS SET – and a tiny drawing. Haymitch stared at the picture. Unmistakably a bee, complete with tiny wings and stinger.

The message was four weeks late, but he had waited so much longer for these words. He carefully lit the paper with a match and watched it go up in smoke and flame.

"Let the games begin," he whispered.

/

_To be continued._


	3. Gambit

_Author's note: The song Rose reads is called "The Times" – published as a broadside in early 1776 (From: __Songs and Ballads of the American Revolution__, New York 1855)_

* * *

**Chapter 03 - GAMBIT**

Somebody was outside.

Rose woke up with a start. Like so many times before she lay frozen for a moment, disorientated by the _wrongness_ of her surroundings. The bed faced the small window, not a wall hung with photos and drawings and her grandmother's embroidery sampler. The bed-cover was a patchwork of red and white squares, not the blue-striped one she had since her return from college. The moving shadow on the wall was that of a huge ash tree that sheltered the little teacher's house, not the pump-tower of 12A.

She was not home. After almost six months she still felt a stranger when she woke up. But that was not enough to make her heart hammer in panic like it did now.

'There is somebody outside', she thought and strained to listen to the sounds of the night. 'It was not a dream.'

Footsteps. A soft scraping. The dry splintering of icicles.

Someone walking on the path she's shovelled around the house. Someone opening the lattice door in the wooden fence she'd built. Someone tall enough to bang against the icicles that hung from the eaves.

A burglar? Did she own anything worth stealing?

Another scraping sound, this time to the right side of the house. Close to the lean-to where she kept her bees.

Who'd brave the bitter cold and the knee-high snow to steal honey? 'A bear', the frightened ten-year-old in her heart told her. She'd once seen a bear, high up in the mountains, but never here in District 12. The fence, charged or dead, would keep all animals out but for the adventurous fox or wandering turkey.

If not a bear, it must be somebody who did not know the least about bees. They slept at this time of year, crowded together as a softly vibrating clump, warming each other, dreaming of summer. Most of the honey had been harvested by Rose before the first frost. She'd filled the golden syrup in glasses and earthen jugs, sealed the covers with wax and stored them in the safest place she knew – under her bed.

A hungry bear? A very stupid burglar?

Well, she could hide here in bed and feel sorry for herself, or get up and find out.

Pulling on a knitted sweater over her pyjamas, she stepped into her boots. At least her winter gear was appropriate – winter in 12A meant five months of snow and freezing wind, so people up there needed warm boots and coats. It had been wise to take her clothes with her, although District Twelve boasted a milder climate. Winter meant snow and icy winds. So what if she lived alone and had no-one to warm her bed at night – at least she had warm pyjamas!

She was about to open the front door, when she paused. What if it _was_ a burglar, or worse, a bear? Was she going to talk it into submission?

The possession of long distance weapons was forbidden, she did not need Hamish to cite the District code for that. Owning a longbow, crossbow or laser rifle meant instant execution by the Peacekeepers. Oh, the Capitol had to let them have knifes and saws, and a man desperate enough could do all kinds of damage with a pickaxe. But no combat arms. Funny how in the Games always those tributes succeeded who knew how to use a forbidden weapon. She remembered Finnick Odair, who's trident had been the most expensive gift in the arena, ever. Worth every credit though. And there was Johanna Mason with her axe, Adam Khan with his slingshot, Katniss with her bow...

Yeah, and 75 years of blood-sports would not solve her present dilemma – how was she supposed to scare off an intruder with her bare hands? She looked over to the kitchenette. The breadknife? If the intruder twisted her arm, she'd probably cut herself and then drop the knife. Then she reconsidered…

There had been a power cut the day before and she had resorted to candles like most of the District. The candle stub in the glass by the door had gone out by midnight. There really was no reason to keep it burning anyway, only she'd kept one out for Jacob every night to guide him home from the mine. But now the porch lay in darkness. By the light of the moon she recognized the snow-shovel just before she tripped over it. For a split-second she thought about taking up the shovel. Then again, she'd have to hit the intruder with it, and she was not sure if she could do it.

Whoever had opened the lattice door now kneeled in front of the bee-hive and scrabbled about in the snow, cursing under his breath. Rose halted, makeshift weapon ready.

"Hands up where I can see them! You push over my bee-hives and I'll make you sorry for it!"

Gale jumped up as if the bees had already gotten to him. In the pale moonlight he looked older and tougher. Not that she could see much of him under the knitted balaclava he wore. But she knew his eyes. Right now they stared at her, transfixed.

"I thought we were clear about not sneaking into my yard and scaring me to death? … What?"

He still had his hands at shoulder level.

Rose blushed. "Oh, take them down, will you? This is stupid."

And really it was, she standing there in her pyjama bottoms, a cooking pot and a large wooden spoon as her weapons.

"Were you going to cook an intruder?" asked Gale, his voice trembling suspiciously.

She shrugged, more nonchalantly than she felt. "Most predators can be scared off with loud noise. Even burglars."

"I could have been something worse."

"Yeah?" Rose set the pot and spoon down and rubbed her arms. "Let's go inside. It's freezing cold."

Gale shook his head. "I need the disk," he said urgently.

"We agreed you'd let me know when you needed it so I could have it ready for you."

"I am set for night-shifts for a whole week, they have raised the quota again. I have to get the message out tonight, or else it will have to wait for too long. So I thought I'd not wake you… But I can't find it. It's gone!"

"The disk is probably stuck under the hive," said Rose and felt with her flat hand, carefully lifting the straw-skep a little. "It's sticky down there, with the wax and honey." She dropped the small metal tin into Gale's palm.

"Thank you," he said, relieved.

"What would happen, if you were sick? Or … I don't know, if Cray ever got suspicious and had you watched? Who'd pass on the messages?"

He shook his head. "Nobody. I was Thatcher Anderson's replacement. There is nobody who'd take over from me."

"And the man who receives the incoming messages?"

Gale shook his head. "Too dangerous." He slipped the disk into his pocket. "Again, thank you, and sorry for disturbing you."

Rose watched him leave, then she called out softly: "Wait!"

It took only a few minutes to dress in tough pants and a quilted jacket, and twice as long to talk Gale into letting her come with him. Still, even as they reached the railway bridge he tried to send her home. "I know my way around here. If anything happens and I have to split, I know a dozen escape routes on both sides of the fence. While you …"

She rolled her eyes. "True."

"We'll have to climb the bridge, over ice-covered beams. If you slip and fall, you'll break your neck."

"Probably."

"So you really should…"

"Gale?"

"Yes?"

"Shut up."

"Yes, Ma'am."

Once he'd acquiesced, he only spoke to utter advice on where to step and where to hold on when they crossed the shallow stream under the bridge and made their way up the embankment. Gale was a good climber, but Rose prided herself in her ability to scale rocks, and overtook him easily. When he reached the top of the buttress, she held out a hand to him.

Breathing heavily, he let her help him. "I should have known," he gasped. "That's why they call the folks from 12A 'ice-monkeys'."

Rose snorted. Her breath stood like a white cloud in the freezing air. "One thing is for sure, there's a lot of 'up' and 'down' where I come from, and not much 'straight ahead'. My father taught me to climb. It's a survival skill when you live that high up in the mountains."

"Good to get out of a mineshaft in an emergency, too," Gale mused. "I once heard about a guy who got out by a rock chimney, without rope or ladder."

So the story had made its way to Twelve, albeit a bit distorted. There had been a ladder, at least for parts of the ascent. Rose decided to change the topic. "What now?"

"Now we wait for the train. It will blow the whistle when it leaves the station. 85 seconds later it reaches the bridge." He frowned at her. "You stay out of sight."

She nodded meekly.

"I mean it, Rose!"

"I'll watch. Nothing more."

"The disk goes on the last carriage, right under the door. There's a groove, just deep enough for it to fit. The magnet will keep it in place."

They sat in silence, well hidden from sight between two slabs of sandstone which had once, long ago, worn an inscription, now almost completely erased by wind and weather. Autumn storms had carried dry leaves into the narrow recess, so it was not too uncomfortable to sit. There was no sound except for the hunting call of a night bird, the creaking of a snow-laden branch and the water of the stream gurgling through ice-shelves.

"Any news from Katniss?" Rose asked casually. She'd watched the reports about the Victors' tour, but so far they'd shown only short clips about the jubilant receptions in District 11 and 10. She would never admit she'd hoped for a glimpse of Haymitch. All she'd seen was Katniss and Peeta in ever changing costumes.

Gale shook his head. "It's three days into the tour, so they should be in 9 by now, or already on their way to 8. Katniss always wanted to see the ocean, so maybe she gets a chance."

He sounded so forlorn she felt the need to comfort him. "They'll be back in no time, and soon the Capitol will crown a new victor and feed it to the cameras." But there'd be 23 dead tributes before that… "You know, I always wondered how the victors live. You see all these feature films on TV, about their glamorous life and the famous parties they get to go to. Great clothes and hair, and they get to see the world and meet the President. I even had a poster of Finn Odair on my wall when I was in college."

"That poser!" Gale scoffed, and she smiled in the darkness.

"He was 14 when he won. I guess it goes to your head when you become famous so young."

"Now that you know some victors – three of them – what do you think now?" He cocked his head and listened for the train, then sat back. "Not so great, huh?"

"Less glamour, I give you that. They have those lovely houses, and of course they'll never need to worry about money, but all in all it feels more like a punishment than a reward for 'courage and strength'."

"Half of them come out of the arena insane," stated Gale dryly. "My mother always says nobody gets out there alive. She knew many of the tributes who did not make it. Her own brother was reaped in '55. He did not make it."

Rose remembered that District 12 had only ever had two victors before Katniss and Peeta. "Haymitch was his mentor?"

"Don't blame him," Gale retorted hotly. "Cause I know my mother does. But Wyll – that was his name – stepped off the starting plate too early. There was nothing Haymitch could do. We even learned about it in school."

The Games were a compulsory subject for the 12year olds, and Rose was deeply grateful she did not have to teach it to the younger ones. Lessons covered the cause and history of the Games, the Reaping ceremony, rules and regulations, and trivia about the victors.. Nothing practical, she thought, nothing that would save a tribute's life.

A hoarse whistle in the distance made them jump. Gale's fingers dug into Rose's arm. "Stay put!"

She nodded, her heart suddenly drumming like crazy. What was she doing here, 15 meters over ground, with only a bit of air between her and a moving coal-freighter? Gale had explained that the train crossed the bridge at walking speed and there'd be almost no draft. But still.

And then it came, first a steady white light in the darkness, then a blinding beam. Rose had seen the train every other day passing her house, but by then it had sped to a dark swoosh. Now she was so close she could not just count the waggons, but read the numbers and destinations on the plates each waggon carried. District 8 and 2 and 3, but mostly the Capitol. To be expected. She remembered the bright lights of the city, of its high-rise buildings. Even the humble teacher's college was pure luxury compared to how people in the Districts lived.

Gale stayed hidden, ducked between the cornerstones until the train had almost passed. When the last waggon passed them, almost soundlessly, he got up and walked with it for a few meters. With a practised grip he pushed the disk into the groove and slapped his palm over it to make sure the magnet attached to the steel panel. Then he stepped back into the shadows and watched the train disappear.

"Did you ever open the disk and read the message?" Rose asked when they'd reached solid ground again.

"No." He saw her disbelieving glance and admitted: "Once, in the beginning. It was just gobbledygook. It's written in code, I think. Lots of numbers, strange words, no proper sentences. I couldn't make any sense of it."

"And the answers?" she asked.

"Come in by other ways."

"Which you won't tell me."

"Which I don't know."

They walked back, Rose in the lead, stepping into their footsteps, and Gale now and then obscuring them with a big pine branch. There'd be more snow tomorrow, he pronounced, so their traces would be gone before long.

When they could see the school and the teacher's house, Rose stopped to catch her breath.

"One moment." She propped her hands onto her thighs and leaned forward. "I'm not used to nightly excursions through the wilderness any more.

Gale scraped snow off a fallen trunk and flung a snowball into the darkness beyond the path.

"If you could leave District 12, would you?" he asked out of the blue.

Rose frowned. "What do you mean, leave?"

"Into the woods." He waved vaguely in the direction of the fence.

"I don't know." She blew out a breath and thought about it. "I am not sure I could survive. In summer, yes. But now? I am a good climber, I don't mind long hikes and I know a bit about plants and herbs. But I am not a good shot, and I'd hate to set snares. I'd do it before I starve, but I'd rather not."

"But if it was the only way to be with the person you loved?" His voice sounded like that of a child who begged for a happy ending to a scary story.

She thought about Jacob and, with a sudden spark of guilt, about Haymitch. She loved Jacob, only Jacob. And to be with him she'd have to cross a border more forbidding than the electric fence. Still, Haymitch had made her laugh, and after their way home from the bonfire she considered him a friend – although he'd probably have something snarky to say to that…

"Love is the most precious thing life holds in store for us." Her voice was steady when she looked at the young man. "I've known it, and you must believe me, it is worth every risk."

/

She remembered that very statement when she knocked on the Hawthorne's door ten days later. It had snowed, just as Gale had predicted, but now the sky was clear and pale blue. The network of narrow alleys which connected houses and backyards in the Seam – dirt paths in the summer, trenches in the winter – was even more confusing than ever, now that everything looked the same. All the fences cupped with snow hats, all the porches resembling snow drifts. A fine layer of coal dust gave the snow an unreal appearance. The world had turned to fuzzy grey.

The Hawthorn's house looked like any other house in the Seam, clapboard built, single storey, with a sagging roof. But the windows were clean and front steps swept. The small window in the wooden door was covered with frozen tracery. When Rose knocked again, somebody behind the door breathed against the glass until the icy film melted and cleared a small peep-hole.

'It's the teacher, Miss Rose," a voice, precariously balancing between child and man, called out. Rory, thought Rose. That lovely voice was breaking. With a bit of luck he'd eventually sport a nice tenor like his older brother, but until then she'd rather not hear him sing anymore.

Hazelle Hawthorne opened the door, her apron wet and her dark hair frizzy from steam. She would be a few years older than Rose – 36, 37 maybe. But she looked weary and exhausted, and older than her years. Rose knew Gale's mother took laundry in, but she'd never wasted a thought how the woman managed that in a small house with four children.

"Come in, and close the door behind you." Hazelle was already on her way to the back of the house. "Rory, you watch your brother and sister, you hear me?"

As she passed the small living room which doubled as a kitchen, much like her own, Rose saw Vick, his head bowed over a book, and Posy playing on the floor in front of the stove. When the children noticed their teacher, they smiled and waved. Posy lifted the knitted fox she'd received as a Harvest Day present and made it wave his paw. Rose grinned and waved back at the fox.

Behind the house a porch had been added and partly boarded up. There existed an electric washing machine but it looked unused - no wonder with power cuts every other hour. In the yard beyond the porch there was a pump and a stone tub. A large table stood next to a wood stove, which obviously had started its live as an oil barrel. Soapsuds boiled in a battered kettle. So this was the washhouse.

Hazelle pinned up a damp strand of hair with practised hands before she started to lift sodden pieces of laundry out of the kettle and into a bucket.

"So you heard about it," she said curtly.

Rose looked around, suddenly awkward. She couldn't just sit down on the porch while the other woman worked so hard, could she? When Hazelle noticed her glance she nodded at the pump.

"Need plenty of cold water to get the soap out."

Moving the handle up and down, Rose drew water and Hazelle carried the steaming laundry over to the tub and dumped it in.

"I saw the news," Rose said. By now most of District 12 must have seen it, but Gale's siblings seemed unaware of what had happened.

"Power failure," Hazelle shrugged. "I saw it in the morning, when they were still at school. And later I told them the TV wouldn't work. They'll learn soon enough, and I really have no idea how to explain it to them."

"And Gale?"

Hazelle set a washboard onto the tub. Rose flinched when she saw the woman's red hands, the raw knuckles.

Without hesitation Hazelle started to scrub a shirt over the rippled board. "He's down in the mine. No TV there. But his shift ended half an hour ago, and I bet they could not keep their mouths shut about it in the wash-up room…"

She listened, then laid aside the board. "That will be him."

Rose stopped pumping water. Hazelle looked at her with a mixture of amusement and sorrow.

"Will you stay and talk to him?"

She bit her bottom lips. "You are his mother."

"So I am. By the end of the day I'll take him aside, and I'll let him cry his heart out against my shoulder and I'll sing him a song like I did when he was little and his father had used his belt on him. But now …" She turned towards the porch. "Now he needs some reason talked into him. You are a teacher, you've been to college."

'They didn't teach us how to mend a broken heart,' thought Rose in panic when the back door opened.

Gale was pale as death. For a moment he stood there, and she saw that his nails were still black with coal grime. He must have run off before he could scrub his hands clean with the sharp soap the miners used.

"So it's true," he said in a flat voice to his mother. "If she's here, it's true."

Hazelle only nodded.

"And you," he said to Rose, "have come to explain."

She swallowed. "No. I have come to say I'm sorry."

He crumpled – just like a child, suddenly too weary and broken to stand. Hazelle ran to him, but he held out a hand.

"Let me."

Ignoring his plea this mother helped him to sit down on the porch.

"Why would she do such a thing?" He frowned at Rose. "I mean … we kiss, and she leaves, and two weeks later she is another guy's bride? How is that possible?"

Rose felt her throat constrict. What was she supposed to say, what _could_ one say? "There must be an explanation. They'll return this evening, you should ask Katniss herself."

"Yeah right," he snarled at her. "I'll just waltz into the mayor's house and drag her out. The likes of us are not invited this year."

Which was true, Rose thought, and according to the people she'd talked to, a breach of tradition. Harvest Ball used to be for _everyone_, had been a last chance for the poor to get a full stomach before winter closed in. But not anymore. Now it was invitation only. Madge had delivered hers personally.

Hazelle dried her hands on her apron. "I'll fix us some tea. You'll feel better once you've got something warm in your stomach." She nodded at Rose. "Why don't you two talk until I call you in?"

As soon as his mother had left the back yard, Gale fixed Rose with red-rimmed eyes. Coal dust, she thought numbly, or tears. "Do you have an invitation? If you went there, could you get her out for me? Or help me to sneak in?"

"No, I don't," she lied and sat beside him.

His fist hit the boards. When he saw her wince he pulled himself together. "I am sorry," he said.

"It was only a news report," Rose tried to comfort him. "Maybe it's just a publicity stunt, something their prep-teams made up. Maybe they talked them into it so they'd had a high-light at the end of the tour?"

"Katniss is not stupid," Gale said flatly. "Mellark may be, but not Katniss. And Haymitch – why would he agree to something like this? It's been in the news all over Panem. They'll have to see it through now. But she's only sixteen, everybody knows her mother will never allow it! Hah!"

He was right. Everybody knew that Iris Everdeen would never let Katniss get married so young. 'Everybody knows.' Rose repeated the sentence in her mind. Still Haymitch must have agreed, because Katniss would not act without his consent. Was there a plan behind all this? But what were they trying to accomplish?

"Let's go inside where it's warm, and drink tea," she suggested, but Gale only let his head drop to his knees.

"I can't stay here anymore. Not with her married to Peeta Mellark."

Rose imagined him, out in the woods in midwinter, in the snowstorm, on his way to … Where would one run to? Another District, where things were better than here? She laid a hand on his shoulder and felt him heave with great dry sobs.

"Don't give up on her, Gale. If you really love Katniss, she deserves a chance to explain. Everything can still change."

"Yeah," he said flatly. "But it won't. Not without force."

/

"And now, the highlight of tonight's festivities, Ladies and Gentlemen: Our victors of the 74th Hunger Games - Peeta Mellark and the Girl on Fire, Katniss Everdeen!"

Haymitch smoothed down his new velvet coat, pulled the sharp white cuffs straight and watched his victors walk down the grand staircase of President Snow's mansion.

The audience applauded frenetically. Women fainted when Peeta looked in their direction. Men offered Katniss flowers and, Haymitch assumed, their telephone numbers. He'd have to watch out for Katniss in this vanity fair or face her mother's wrath. On the other hand, if the girl did not succeed in their attempt to appease President Snow's suspicion, Iris Everdeen's anger would be his least worry.

How he hated this place, this crowd... The ball might look like a gaudy night full of music, beautiful dresses, elaborate hairstyles and outrageous jewellery. In reality it was a market, where favours and threats were bartered. Not much different from the Games. In the arena or in the ballroom - alliances held only until one of the allies thought himself strong enough to go it alone.

Still, many victors returned several times a year to the Capitol for the Games, the President's ball and other events. Some, like Finnick Odair, spent more time there than in their native district. Haymitch usually got out as fast as he could once the Games were over – there had been no cause to celebrate for District 12 in a very long time. He had never been to a Capitol Ball, save of course the one in honour of himself winning the Second Quarter Quell. He did not care to remember that occasion.

Music set in. Couples took to the dance-floor. Haymitch watched for a while until the man he was supposed to meet left the ballroom. There would be no seated dinner tonight but an over-boarding buffet of delicacies, so nobody would miss him for a while. He stepped back from the staircase landing. Effie would not leave her charge's side, he was sure of that. After all, a bit of the permanent spotlight that followed them, fell on her as well and she basked in it like a cat in a spot of sunshine.

He had to ask an Avox for the way to the library. His sense of direction was outstanding and allowed him to find his way in places he'd only been once before. But President Snow's mansion had been partly renovated, partly rebuilt since Haymitch's one and only visit. So it took a while to find the book-filled room on the second floor. Haymitch took in the hundreds of ancient leather-bound volumes, the finely worked book-cases, the warm glow in the marble fireplace. There were several stuffed chairs, arranged around small tables for writing or gaming. One was already occupied.

Hamish watched the man carefully set chess-pieces onto a chequered board, inlaid with silver and ebony squares.

He'd met Plutarch Heavensbee almost a quarter of a century ago, during the tributes' training for the Quarter Quell Games. Not that Haymitch specifically remembered the young portly 'assistant-to-Gamemaker's-assistant', who'd watched their training with eagle eyes. His first conscious image of the then 18-years-old Plutarch was hazy –not much more than a cloud of strawberry-blond hair. In his defence he'd been in a cast and hooked onto several drips with painkillers at that time.

What he remembered clearly was the small hard object the stranger had pressed into his limp palm. A chess-piece, the one they called the General.

"This is you," the stranger had said. "Able to march long distances, watching from afar. And willing to strike when the time is right."

That night, he and Plutarch Heavensbee had played their first game of chess. Plutarch, son of the Head Gamemaker, perching on a hardback hospital chair – Haymitch, the first victor from District 12 since the year '09, propped against a pillow. The game board between them.

And so it had been, again and again, in changing circumstances. Two years after their first encounter, Decimus Heavensbee had fallen from grace and disappeared, probably to be executed. His son, only 20 at the time, had left the City Circle. He'd resurfaced in '55, calling in old debts and obligations, slowly but stubbornly scheming his way to the top. Since his official return to the Capitol in '57 they had played chess every year when Haymitch had to mentor.

Often Plutarch's presence had been the only one Haymitch could stomach, having lost another two tributes to the Games, dreading his return to District 12. Oh, no one there would openly blame him, but he'd read in every face that he'd failed them. Again.

But while they played, he would see only the black and silver pieces.

"If you are an Avox, bring us coffee, please." Plutarch neither turned nor raised his voice, but set the last piece onto its square on the board. "And if you are Haymitch – what took you so long?"

Haymitch grinned and chose a bottle from the well-stocked bar. "Since your gambit is always the same, why don't we skip the first three draws to make up for lost time?"

He took his seat opposite Plutarch who steepled his fingers in mild annoyance. "Is it? Always the same?"

"With the exception of '59, '60 and '72, pretty much."

Haymitch's strong hands handled the pieces with surprising finesse. A few moves, pawn and rook and horse, silver and black.

Plutarch nodded. "Indeed."

The Avox served coffee in tiny cups. Plutarch waved the woman away and waited until she closed the door behind her.

"I begged a dance with Katniss Everdeen tonight."

"Did you?" Haymitch leaned back and swirled the ice-cubes in his whiskey. "How are your toes? Effie was adamant she take dancing lessons."

"With the wedding in mind, no doubt."

"No doubt, but last time I saw her dance with Peeta on the train, it still looked rather painful."

"Oh, she dances quite gracefully, I find. The Mellark boy stared daggers at me though."

Haymitch picked up one of the pawns and moved it a square ahead.

While the gilded clock on the mantle-piece ticked the minutes away, they played until the board had emptied but for the two kings and queens, one rook and two generals.

Plutarch got up and went to the bar, taking Haymitch's empty tumbler when he passed him. Ice clanged against glass. He fixed two drinks and sat down again, placing a small device, not bigger than a walnut, on the table. Small cogs whirled, emitting a humming sound.

"Pretty, isn't it?" Plutarch said. "Got it in District 3 when I last visited. Ever heard of Beetee Latier, the victor in '35, the one who electrocuted his competitors? He built it. Genius."

Haymitch nodded. All rooms in the mansion would be under surveillance, but this gadget would scramble their words.

He took a sip and pursed his lips in appreciation of the rare vintage Plutarch had filled their glasses with. "What's the occasion?"

"I've been appointed Head Gamemaker by President Snow. After Seneca's untimely demise they needed a man with … creativity. But you knew that. I sent a message."

Plutarch moved his rook, protecting the queen.

His eyes fixed at the board, Haymitch asked: "Head Gamemaker, huh?"

Plutarch raised one eyebrow. "It's not as if there were too many applicants for the job. You know I've been working towards this for 23 years."

"We both."

A silent toast.

"Check." Haymitch's general threatened Plutarch's king. "So the board is set. What gambit?"

Plutarch paused, studied the remaining pieces over the crest of his steepled fingers. Then he let his king topple over.

"The plan went like this: Get the Mockingjay to the Capitol. She'll have to mentor anyway, so that's easy. Cause a distraction. Get her out. Take her to 13."

"And then?"

"Revolution, my friend. Revolution."

Haymitch let the silver general roll over his palm, snapping it back when it reached his fingertips. "And the catch? There always is one, even in the best laid plans."

"It's a Quarter Quell. Everything will be different this year."

"Different how?"

"Katniss will not mentor."

Haymitch frowned at him.

Plutarch set his glass hard onto the table. The black rook fell to the floor. "How, my friend, do you think the Quell instructions come about?"

"I see." Haymitch watched his vis-a-vis through the amber liquid in his glass. "Snow will change the instructions, you think?"

Plutarch closed his eyes in reminiscence. "When I was a child, my father took me to a strategy meeting with Snow. I was … eight, maybe nine, and easily bored. So while they talked on the terrace, I went for discovery. The ballroom. The library. The President's office. They had a water leak that day and all security and maintenance were busy saving the carpets. Usually the casket containing the envelopes is covered with a secured glass dome. But that day … it was open."

"Nobody saw you?"

"I am still alive, am I not?" Plutarch's fingers wrapped around his drink so hard his knuckles paled. "There were envelopes for the next 100 Quarter Quells. Whoever filled that casket planed for Panem to exist for a very long time."

"And did you read them all?" Haymitch stared at the man he would never call a friend but who was probably the only ally he'd trust with his life.

"They were empty." Plutarch's pale eyes met his. "All were empty. Snow won't have to _change_ them. He is the one who _writes_ them."

Silence fell. Haymitch fought for breath. The Quarter Quell Games he had played in, had cost 47 lives. More, if you considered what had happened afterwards. But 47 tributes - just because President Snow had thought it appropriate...

"Nobody knows," said Plutarch. "Well, besides you and me and Coriolanus Snow."

"So he can make it up as he goes? And then claim the instructions demand the Districts deliver twin children or blind ones or whatever he thinks hurts the most?"

"Exactly." Plutarch's eyes never left Haymitch's face. "What do you think would hurt the most?"

Silence. The clock ticked, then stroked 12 times. From afar applause and the sharp explosions of fireworks pronounced midnight.

"He's calling for the victors to be reaped again. 24 victors in the arena, and only one comes out alive. Carnage, a bloodbath worthy a Quarter Quell."

"No." Haymitch's voice was low but vibrated with anger.

"He told me tonight that Katniss' race had to be extinguished. Her _race_, the surviving victors."

The board flew across the room and hit the marble chimney. Silver and black pieces clattered to the hardwood floor. Plutarch winched. Haymitch raked both hands through his fair hair, a gesture of utter desperation.

"This is his way of telling us that nobody is safe. He thinks fear will suffocate the uprising in the Districts."

Plutarch nodded, then smiled sardonically. "And this, my friend, is where he makes a mistake."

Haymitch's mouth twitched scornfully. "Yeah?"

"So far, rules were clear. Of course, people feared and hated the Games – but in their deepest heart they knew they'd be safe once they reached eighteen. Or if they were chosen as tributes, they knew they'd be safe if they survived."

"Fat chance."

"But still – a chance. What do you think happens when that safety is taken away? If even victors can be called back into the arena? No child, no adult will be safe from now on. After this Quarter Quell we all stand with one foot in the arena."

"Theoretically," Haymitch replied coolly. "Feels different from my point of view. _You_ won't be a tribute come Reaping day. But Katniss will for sure, being the only female victor in 12. And either Peeta or I."

"I'd rather it be you."

Haymitch's eyes narrowed. "Why, thank you! Already planning for the best dramatic effect, are we? We had the star-crossed lovers. How are you going to top that? Mentor vs. student?"

Plutarch leaned back in his chair and frowned, clearly hurt. "Is this what you think?"

Wearily Haymitch closed his eyes. His mind raced, cold sweat covered his forehead. His breath came too fast, too flat, and he felt nausea well up. "Yes. No," he said so quietly Plutarch had to lean closer. "I don't know. Tell me what to think."

He could not sit still. Opening the door to the balcony he let in the cool night air. In the gardens below, people danced and laughed, unaware of death and politics. He noticed Effie Trinket's silvery-blue hair and ridiculous fluffy collar. Peeta and Katniss stood next to her, Katniss' face flushed with either wine or excitement, Peeta showing his adoring audience a polite mask.

They were in deep trouble as it was, with the uprisings in the Districts and the executions they had witnessed. Only last night they had planned how to placate Snow by staging a wedding. How could he tell them they were living on borrowed time?

"I think …" Plutarch knew better than to follow Haymitch but stayed in his chair. "I want you to protect the Mockingjay. Where ever she is."

"She'll be in the arena. If they draw Peeta's name I could volunteer. But if I am chosen, nothing can prevent him from taking my place."

"True. But the Reaping can be rigged. Its' not easy but has been done before, mostly in 1 and 2. We'd make sure Peeta is chosen so you can volunteer and be with Katniss."

"I could not protect her any better than Peeta. That boy loves her, god knows why."

"But he is still that, a boy, who has not drawn blood yet. While you …" Plutarch had a talent for leaving painful sentences unfinished. "Someone has to make sure the Mockingjay stays alive until we can cause a distraction."

Haymitch's fingers grabbed the balcony's railing. He struggled for air but feared he'd throw up any moment. A nice surprise for the pompous council men who stood right under the balcony…

"I give you my word we'll get you out in time. We've known each other for so long," said Plutarch. "You should know I never leave an ally behind."

'There are no allies in the arena,' thought Haymitch. 'Not in the end.' He remembered Maysilee Donner, slowly bleeding out next to him. If she hadn't died from the wounds the mutt-birds inflicted with their razor-sharp peaks, he'd have had to finish her eventually. He remembered himself, knife in hand. He had killed three careers, had _become_ the knife, steel blade, deadly edge. A killer. His nightmares took him back there every night. He did not like the Haymitch he'd become in the arena. He could not return there, not without losing what little was left of his soul.

When he finally spoke his voice was rough.

"No."

He left the library without another word.

Plutarch picked up the board and rearranged the pieces. Haymitch Abernathy – brilliant mind, dangerous temper and wounded soul... The victor from District 12 was the closest he had to a friend, and he would not easily sacrifice him for the cause. But if Haymitch refused to go, he'd have a good reason.

They'd have to go with plan B, with Katniss and Peeta in the arena. And hope they could get the Mockingjay out in time.

/

In the late afternoon Rose packed her supply of dried herbs and honey combs and waved good-by to the other traders in the Hob. She hated the tense atmosphere in the big rambling warehouse, the silent desperation of people who needed things they could not afford, the bitterness of sellers who had to insist on a certain price for their wares. The Hob was no place for mercy.

She only ever came here on Saturday when the school was closed. This week she had traded honey for a pair of socks, may-weed soap for a haircut, and an ointment that killed head-lice for a small sheet of window glass. What she really wanted – needed – was more calories. Oatmeal, wheat, rice, whatever. Usually a victor's district was showered with food the following year. But either the Capitol had changed the rules to punish District 12 for the embarrassment Katniss and Peeta had caused, or the food drained away somewhere on its way to the Seam. Last Parcel day had brought rice and potatoes, but no sugar and none of the much needed essentials like sunflower oil or dried meat.

She wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders and made her way through the throng. Outside, she took a moment to enjoy a bit of watery sunshine on her face. The alley through the allotments resembled a ditch between snow walls. The dirt-road was easier to navigate. Dozens of small feet had trodden a nice path up to the school and onward to the fence around the teacher's house. Harvest Day was two days past, and the snow here to stay. Still, spring would come, it always did. There'd be fresh herbs and sprouts for much needed vitamins. Summer meant vegetables from the allotments, and mushrooms and berries from the wood, and meat as well, if the poachers were lucky. A sudden hunger-bang let her stumble and she had to set her basket down. Eyes closed, she held on to a fence-post and waited for the dizziness to subside. She was almost home, just a few yards to go.

"If it was me, I'd say I was drunk," a familiar voice drawled in her ear. "But it is you. So what's wrong, sweetheart?"

Her eyes flew open. "Go away, Haymitch."

He sat on her porch steps, the moonshine bottle beside him, and a large brown paper bag by the door.

"Never took orders well", he remarked casually, getting up and reaching for her basket. "Let me carry this."

"I just …" She had to stop. Cold sweat covered her forehead.

Alarmed he lifted her chin and stared into her eyes.

"Sit!" he ordered curtly and helped her reach the porch.

Rose sat down, utterly exhausted. She heard him rummage in the paper-bag. The sound of a knife, sawing through a crust. The wonderful scent of freshly baked raisin bread. Her mouth filled with saliva.

"I am fine!" she protested when he pressed a piece of bread into her hand.

"Eat."

She looked at the bread. Took a tiny bite, then another. Closed her eyes in bliss.

"When was the last time you had a full meal, woman?" he asked, an edge in his voice. "I missed you at the mayor's dinner last night."

Rose hated him this very moment. There he stood, expensive coat carelessly buttoned, a tear on the sleeve where a thorn or nail had caught the woollen material. This was the coat he had stepped off the train and had been ushered into a car to the mayor's house. The white shirt was probably the one he had worn for the ball. Now it was rumbled, his boots scuffed. He smelled of whiskey, and the dark rings under his eyes were not caused by hunger or the sorrow for a sickly child, but a fortnight of heavy drinking and who knew what else.

The bread turned sour in her mouth and she almost spit it out. She _had_ eaten, otherwise she'd be dead. Only every other day children did not show up for class and their mothers sent carefully worded letters to explain their absence, when it was clear for all involved that the children were too weak to make it to school and back. Half of the district subsisted on tesserae, but with that meagre supply of grain and oil one could barely survive. So Rose had started to cook soup in the morning. Whatever she had, went in – mostly turnips, sometimes potatoes or oats or stale bread, and dried carrots and mushrooms, and on lucky days even a bit of bacon rind. By ten o'clock the children would line up, each with a bowl, and Madge dealt out soup until the large kettle was empty. Many times this bowl would be the only warm meal a child in the Seam got. But that was also true for the teacher who's weekly wages went straight into the soup…

And Haymitch Abernathy could just walk into a shop and buy raisin bread, fresh from the oven. Just like that.

"I am fine," she mumbled and tried to get up. His heavy hand on her shoulder forced her to stay where she was.

He sat beside her and casually corked the moonshine bottle. Handed her another piece of bread which she could not resist. Dropped a paper-wrapped parcel in her lap.

"What is this?" Rose handled it with appropriate suspicion.

"A gift."

She looked down at the parcel in her lap. It must be a book. Why would Haymitch Abernathy give her book? A bottle of fine brandy, yes. But a book? All printed articles had to be approved by the Capitol and could only be purchased in Capitol shops. But there were of course old books, salvaged from ruins, dating back to the Dark Days and beyond. She had seen some, even opened one before. The doctor up in 12A owned a book on drugs and medicines, most of which were forever lost. But the brand names and their descriptions alone were pure pleasure to read: Aspirin, Penicillin - miracle drugs that might still exist in secret Capitol labs for the very wealthy but not in the Districts where pneumonia meant a painful death and headache was treated with willow-bark tea.

Her heart beat faster when she untied the string. She felt that he watched her, but she was too fascinated by what she unwrapped to snap at him.

"Where did you get this?" she asked, suddenly breathless with awe.

"I have my contacts."

She caressed the cracked leather of the cover. Once a bright blue, its spine had darkened where it would have been exposed to daylight, standing in a shelf. The pages were brittle, yellowed with age, in a font which looked strange and irregular. The book-mark, a thin ribbon bound into the spine, was frazzled with long use. This book had been opened by many hands, Rose thought. Its owners had marked favourite passages with dog-ears and – in one place – with a pressed flower, now so faded she could not tell what it had been when it and the book were young.

"_Songs and Ballads of the American Revolution_," she read from the flyleaf. "This is very old."

"From before the Dark Days. No idea what or where 'America' was," Haymitch shrugged.

"They had songs, even then." She let it fall open at random and read:

_"The lion, the wolf, and the tiger may prey, each beast of the forest, _

_though worse still than they, may be brought as examples, _

_yet where can we find _

_one so cruel, as sporting to kill their own kind."_

"Yeah, mankind has always been very good at that." Haymitch did not meet her eyes. "Some things never change."

"It says 1776. It must be centuries old." She turned the page. "It ends like this:"

_The times, it seems, are altered quite,_

_The scales are cracked, the sword is broke,_

_Right is now wrong, and wrong is right._

_And justice is a standing joke."_

Closing the book she said: "I can't take this, Haymitch. It is too valuable. It belongs in a museum or the President's library, not in a school in District 12."

"It's not really Capitol approved reading material. They'd only burn it. It'd be a pity." Haymitch got up abruptly and walked over to the lean-to, where the skep was well secured under boards and reed-matts. "I thought I'd see you at the mayor's ball, but obviously you decided to shun it."

"Shun it." She stifled a laugh. "Yeah, right."

"Undersee told me he invited you, but you refused."

"I was busy." She chewed on a raisin and savoured the sweetness. Of course he would not know she'd spent the evening talking reason into Gale and keeping the young man from harm. "And I had nothing to wear. All my ball-gowns are so last season."

He returned to the porch but would not sit. She watched him walk restlessly through her front yard, touching leafless twigs, picking up stones, checking fence posts.

"So how was the tour?"

His shoulders tensed. A twig snapped in his hands. He shrugged. "Okay."

"_Okay_?" Her anger returned, a hot spark that threatened to turn into fire any minute. "What's 'okay' with this foolish engagement? Have you ever considered what this means to Gale, to Katniss' family? Or were you just trying to add another glorious photo opportunity to an already successful tour? More viewers, more publicity?"

He stared at her, dumbstruck. "What?"

"Oh come on! There must be something in it for you! There'd be no engagement without your consent. So just tell me, why."

"You seem to have made up your mind about my motives already."

Her cheeks turned red at his cool tone. She, who'd told Gale to give Katniss a chance to explain… She, who'd always praised reason… She'd just accused this man of… Siding with the Capitol? Selling out two young people to the vultures disguised as camera crews? What was wrong with her? Hunger _did_ fry one's brain, it seemed.

" You must have had your reasons, and they are not my business." She wrapped the book into the brown paper, and held it out to him. "Thank you, but I can't accept it."

When he did not move, she slapped the book on the boards and got up. "Obviously I am not feeling too well. I'd appreciate if you could just…"

"Listen," he said, and cleared his throat awkwardly. "I thought we were friends. Kind of. Why didn't you tell me?"

Rose spoke through gritted teeth. "Tell you what?"

He grabbed the shawl and forced it off her shoulders. His finger dug painfully into her protruding collarbone. "Have you looked into the mirror lately? You look like a ghost! If you can't afford to buy food let me …"

"I don't need your charity!" she hissed. All she needed was Haymitch Abernathy leaving her alone so she could crawl into bed and sleep. Maybe then she'd work out why what he'd done disappointed her so much.

"Yeah, yeah, I get it." He sneered at her, his blue eyes ablaze with fury. "Remember, I am the guy who deals with the Capitol. I am not talking about hand-outs. I am offering you a job."

That made her halt.

"A job."

"Yep."

Suspicious, she stared at him. "What kind of job?"

He stuffed his hands deeper in his pockets and avoided her eyes, suddenly awkward. "I need someone to sleep with me. Someone I trust."

Rose felt her heart shrink. This could not be happening.

"You bastard!" she whispered. "First you start this rumour about me being your lover. I had to report to the mayor when that damned Peacekeeper wouldn't keep his mouth shut! And now you are going to make me your whore?"

She stormed off towards the door.

"Wait!"

When he overtook her and barred the entrance to the house she had to stop. She tried to get past him, and when he would not let her, swiped at his face with her nails.

"Listen. Damn it, woman, listen to me!" He took hold of her arms and shook her.

"Let go", she said through gritted teeth. "You are hurting me."

His hands came off so fast she almost stumbled backwards down the porch steps. Her arms crossed, she waited while he seemed to search for words.

Haymitch stared at a point past her shoulder. "I apologize. I … Forget what I asked you."

"Forget it? You offered to pay me to sleep with you! " She was still angry but mostly with herself. What about her resolve to keep their relationship amiable but at a distance? But there were the dark shadows under his eyes… "You told me to look into a mirror. Well, you should have a good look at yourself. What happened? Did you fall ill? Or into a bottle?"

He shook his head.

"Haymitch Abernathy," Rose snarled. "This is not the best of days to play 10 questions. Tell me why you look like hangover incarnate."

"I can't sleep." It came out like a forced confession.

"Then read a book", she snapped.

"I mean, I don't dare to." He still did not look her in the eye. "There are nightmares… Liquor used to keep them at bay, but not anymore. I keep waking up, a knife in my hand, slashing about. I wrecked my train compartment, almost killed one of the attendants." He swallowed dryly. "I'm so tired."

Rose could not think of anything to say. "Haymitch…"

He raised a hand to silence her.

"I guess you made it clear, you don't need charity. Well, I don't need your pity. What I need is a spotter, someone I trust, to wake me as soon as the nightmares set in. I'd ask Peeta but the boy has enough on his plate as it is."

"But how would I know when to wake you up?"

His mouth turned into a bitter line. "You'll know, believe me."

"And that's the job?"

"That's the job. Nothing more."

She chewed her bottom lip, thinking it through. "And you'd pay me?"

He shrugged. "In bread or bacon or money, whatever you prefer."

"I won't come to your house. If people saw me in the Victors' Village the rumour mill would have a meltdown."

His mouth twitched. "I don't mind coming here, to your place. Darkness falls early at this time of year. Nobody will see me."

"The kids will."

"I'll come only on Saturdays and Sundays, when the school is closed, starting tonight. I don't need a bed, a chair will do. I'll leave once I've slept for a few hours." He held out a hand. "Deal?"

She sighed and inwardly called herself a fool. "Deal."

"And now tell me why you almost fainted."

She pressed her lips together and said nothing.

"You are feeding the little buggers, don't you?"

"No! I have a … a gambling habit."

"Poker?"

"Yeah, Poker. And … other stuff. I bet on Katniss wearing a green dress at the Capitol party, only she wore black."

He snorted. "Sweetheart, you are the worst liar I ever met. Tell me the truth." When she only frowned at him, he shrugged. "I'll find out anyway."

He picked up the paper-bag and handed her the rest of the raisin-bread. "I'll be back by nightfall. Don't bother with dinner. I'll cook."

"You can cook?"

The honest shock in her eyes made him laugh. "Nah, only joking. But I'll provide something so your grumbling stomach won't keep me awake."

Before she could hit him, he walked away, whistling tunelessly.

/

_To be continued._


	4. If I Die Before I Wake

**Chapter 4 - IF I DIE BEFORE I WAKE**

Haymitch stood in front of the teacher's house and could have smacked his head against the porch post. What had he been thinking? He wouldn't get a wink of sleep, not with this woman whom he hardly knew in the same room with him. He'd almost slit an Avox' throat on the train, damn it! And the poor guy had only passed by his compartment at the wrong time...

When he turned to trace his own footsteps in the snow back to the Victors' Village, he stumbled over a fallen branch and almost slipped on the ice puddle under the downpipe. A snow-shovel fell, and the racket brought Rose to the door. Perfect! He brushed the snow off his knees and tried to retain a bit of dignity.

She stood in a rectangle of light. "Haymitch?"

He stalked to the door, hands in his pockets, the knife a cool presence in his right palm.

Rose wrinkled her nose when he stepped onto the porch. "Are you drunk?"

He shrugged. "No." When he saw her sceptical face, he admitted: "Takes more than a drink or two to make me drunk these days."

"Or two?" She shook her head in wry disgust and opened the door.

Haymitch had been in the house before, had visited with Thatcher and Flora a few times over the years. The whole of it was not larger than his living room. Rose had changed things, moved the furniture, replaced the curtains, and made the place her own with drawings on the wall, pine cones in a pottery bowl on the table and a colourful quilt over the bed. A fire crackled in the stove, and a gasoline lamp emanated warm light.

"Power cut, as usual on a Saturday evening," she said, pointing at the lamp. "So, what's for dinner?"

He stared at her. "Dinner?"

"You were supposed to bring something to eat." Rose sighed. "You forgot."

"Ah, Snow's beard!" He raked his hands through his hair. "You know what, let's forget the whole thing. It was a bad idea from the start."

"No way." She crossed her arms over her breasts and gave him a stern look. "We have a deal, remember? You pay me for watching you sleep. Easy money! I won't let you welsh on this." Her face softened and she tilted her head, taking a better look at him. "You look like a gust of wind could push you over."

"Why, thank you!" he scoffed. "You say the sweetest things."

"Honestly, Haymitch. You look sick." She steered him to the kitchen table. "Did you have to drink? You said it did nothing for your insomnia."

'But it does a lot for my sanity,' he thought and sat down wearily. Aloud he said: "Habit. Peeta bakes, Katniss hunts. I drink. Helps me pass the time."

"Really. I forgot, you victors don't need to work, or do you? So what do you do with your day – if you're not drinking or training tributes?" She stood on tip-toes and rummaged in a cupboard over the sink. "Ah, I knew there was some bread left. Do you like toast? You better do, cause there is nothing else." She pressed the loaf against her chest and blushed. "I am sorry. When I am nervous I can't stop jabbering."

Relieved by her anxiety Haymitch relaxed a little. "I play chess. With myself, or with Peeta, but he's a lousy player, way too impulsive. I read." He watched her cutting the stale bread and placing the slices on the hot stove to roast. "In summer I go fishing. Stupidest creatures on earth, trout."

"Did you bring pyjamas?"

He almost choked. "What?"

"Pyjamas." She pointed at the outfit she wore, and he noticed for the first time, that she did not wear the habitual dress or her winter trousers. Checked flannel pants, thick socks, a knitted pale blue sweater. Her brown hair was pulled back in a loose braid, nothing like the strict chignon she usually wore. She was obviously ready for bed – and he was not.

"I'll sleep as I am. If I sleep at all." He had made it a habit to sleep in his clothes, it seemed. It went with sleeping by day – and never really sleeping but nodding off…

"You will. We have a deal, and you'll sleep." She reached for a sheet of paper which lay on the table with a pile of books and home-work. "I really can't afford you not to." She put the list in front of him and went to turn the bread slices on the stove. "I wrote it down for you: Five bags of oatmeal. One sugar cone. One pound of raisins and hazelnuts each. And five gallons of milk, if you can get it."

"That's your price?"

When she nodded, his mouth twitched in wry amusement. "Has anybody ever told you that you are a seriously strange woman?"

She shrugged and set a plate in front of him. "Once or twice. Jacob always said I was too stubborn for my own good."

"Rose," he said as gently as he could. "You _do_ know they'll find out what you are doing and will only rise food-prices until demand and supply are balanced again? In the end you'll have achieved nothing, maybe made the situation worse for everyone."

"I know." She sat down and stared at her plate. "But I can't give up. Not now."

"There'll be another Parcel day. People will get by, they always do."

"Maybe." She winced. "Oh no!"

The bread on the hot griddle had started to smoke. One piece had already caught fire when Haymitch lopped it onto his plate. He refused to throw it away and only scraped the blackened parts off. Rose fetched a jug of water and two glasses, and set a small bowl with honey-butter on the table.

He started to eat and nodded in appreciation. "This is good. I like the charred bits. Very 12A, I assume."

That made her laugh and he was glad about it. "Very! It almost makes me homesick. Not for the burned toast, but for the people."

"There's lots of that around here. People, I mean."

She toyed with her fork. "I've turned into a loner. I see the kids, of course. And Madge. And the kids' families are friendly with me. But they are not _friends_." Her hands fluttered in an uncertain gesture. "There's no one here I'd run to when in danger or need. I thought it would be different, would be easier to find friends. When I got the transfer order, I was …" She sighed and bit into her toast. "Excited, I guess. At least curious. Everybody told me I needed a change of scene after Jacob's death. A new beginning. And I thought, well maybe that's it. That's my chance for another life."

"And another love?" His voice was carefully blank, and he busied himself with filling their glasses with water. "You are what? 27?"

"28. And I had a great love in my life. I don't think there'll be another," she said earnestly. "But … happiness. Friendship. Contentment."

"The fates don't give a damn about what we wish for. They deal the cards as they see fit."

When she looked straight at him, he detected a hint of pity in her glance. It made him angry, and at the same time wistful. "What?"

She smeared honey-butter on her toast. "Nothing. I guess I'm not the only one who did not have the life they imagined they would have."

He leaned back, let his eyes wander from the clock to the drawings on the wall to the gasoline lamp. "I had it all mapped out when I was 12. I was to be an engineer like my father, study at the Tech College in District 2, then an internship in the Capitol. I'd invent new machinery, new methods of production. I'd get married at 30 and have two kids, and I'd live in a grand house and be a well-respected citizen."

Rose tilted her head. "The last part came true, at least."

"The house?"

"The respected citizen. You are a victor, after all."

He rubbed his arms mechanically, suddenly cold. "They respect me because I killed for the Capitol's pleasure, make no mistake. Some achievement."

The whole room seemed chilly all at once. Haymitch got up and wandered to the window. Once more he asked himself what madness had driven him to come here tonight, to this women who asked all the wrong questions. But the longer he did not sleep, the more vulnerable he got, with all his defences crumbling under bone-deep weariness.

"How are we going to do this?"

She said nothing, only stacked the plates and glasses and carried them to the sink. After filling the kettle with water, she set it on the stove.

"I'll take the chair." Haymitch pointed at the rocking chair in the corner. "If I start talking in my sleep or … fidgeting…, don't hesitate. Shake me awake, or empty a jug of cold water over me, if you must."

Rose's brows shot up. "Don't be absurd. You'll sleep on my bed and I'll take the chair. Helps me stay awake." She moved the chair closer to the bed, sat down and pointed at his feet. "Off with your shoes."

He followed meekly, too tired to fight over details.

The bed had been the Andersons', a nice wood-carved frame, broad enough for a married couple. Now there was only one pillow. He lay down, stiff as a board, arms by his side, the folded knife hidden in his palm.

Rose frowned. "You plan to sleep like this?"

"No," he said through gritted teeth. "I'll just lie here and stare at your ceiling."

She sighed. Getting up, she fetched the patchwork-comforter and spread it over him. "When you are warm, you'll fall asleep easier."

Before he could change his mind again, he pressed the folded knife into her hand. "Take that. Put it somewhere I can't reach it."

Her eyes widened. "You sleep with a knife?" But she did not press him for an explanation, and he was grateful for that.

He watched her setting the weapon on the table where he could still see it but not grab it. One by one she snuffed the candles and then the gasoline lamp, until only the honey-scented bees-wax candle burned in a lantern on the kitchen table. The warm flickering light turned the room into a cosy place, far away from the outside world.

When she sat back in her rocking chair, Haymitch could hear the resinous wood in the stove spatter and crackle. A clock ticked. The wind made the tree behind the house scrape against the roof. He relaxed marginally. Even if he could not manage to fall asleep, he could rest. It was a long time since he had slept in a bed, anyway. Usually it was a chair in his living room. At times the carpet in front of the fireplace, or the window seat in his kitchen. Could you unlearn to sleep in a bed?

"The candle," he said. "Doesn't it bother you?"

"I am … a bit afraid of the dark. Stupid really, " she said, and he thought he detected a certain anxiety in her voice. "I always have a light on. I kept a light in a jar by the door when Jacob worked the night-shift. He would help out in the engineer's lab when his shift was over, and I would not sleep until he was home safely."

'Here we go again,' he thought. 'Saint Jacob.' Mortifying, how he'd feel a spark of jealousy for this dead stranger whenever she mentioned him. No doubt, Jacob Cumberland had been a worthy and honourable man who loved his wife and helped out his neighbours and only thought the best of his fellow men. So very much unlike himself.

'Unlike Jacob, you are alive,' the voice in his head whispered. 'You could have all this. The candle in the jar by the door. The wife who waits up for you. The smile. The warmth.'

She touched his hand, gently, but it still made him flinch in surprise. "How's your thumb?"

"My thumb." For a moment he stared at his hand on the comforter, then he remembered the accident at the fence, and how she'd cleaned and bandaged the wound.

He shrugged lazily. The candlelight and the warm comforter did the trick. "They had a medic on the train, who fussed as if I were in immediate danger of perishing – never a good thing on a victor's tour."

She worried her bottom lip. For a fleeting second he remembered kissing her, exploring her mouth. 'Fool', he thought, thoroughly disgusted with himself. 'She's still in love with her dead husband, the man who could do no wrong, who died in service of his people. How you gonna beat that?'

He closed his eyes in shame. She trusted him, had let him into her house. They were friends, and he was in dire need of a friend. He could never be her lover, not in this life. You had to be grateful for what the fates gave you. He'd not betray her trust.

"What happened on the tour, Haymitch?"

He exhaled slowly. Trust her to not let go. "Is this about the engagement, again? Cause if it is…"

"It's not. Maybe it really was Katniss' and Peeta's choice, then I wish them all the happiness in the world. Only … You told me that liquor usually helps you sleep. And now it doesn't anymore. So what has changed?"

How could he tell her about President Snow's threat? Katniss and Peeta had to convince the public of their all-encompassing love - something they had not yet succeeded in, not even with the fake engagement. He knew Snow never made empty threats. Rose was in enough danger as it was, with that firebrand Gale Hawthorne involving her in the smuggling of messages. So he said nothing, just shook his head.

Her fingers traced the back of his hand, where the barbed wire had dug deep into his flesh. "It's healed beautifully, and there is only the faintest of scars. Unlike here." Her fingers wandered, drawing warm lines onto his wrist, his forearm.

He knew what she saw: Nine pale scars, each five inches long, carved into the skin of his arm, like kill-marks on a rifle butt.

_"Come on, you can always die later!" Plutarch's voice was of such intensity that Haymitch surfaced from the fog of pain and drugs. It was the first night after his victory and the gut wound the career had given him, ached like hell. "There must be something you want more than dying."_

_He remembered his answer, his cracked voice. "What do you want?"_

_A frown, a sudden coldness in Plutarch's face. "Power. I want to be someone to be reckoned with."_

_"I just want to go home."_

_"Home." Plutarch had sat down by the bed, avoiding Haymitch's eyes. His voice was tinged with pity. "That might not be so easy, my friend."_

_And he'd been right. Son of a Head Gamemaker, he'd known that no victor got to go home. Oh, they went back to their Districts, but never home. When they had met a year later, Haymitch now a mentor and Plutarch a flunky in Flickerman's PR team, the young man had asked him again: "What do you want?"_

_Haymitch had shown him the seven pale scars on his right forearm, one for each tribute he'd killed in the Games, one for his mother, his brother and his girlfriend whose death was on his hands just as well. _

_"I want revenge."_

Seven scars had become nine when he'd killed the Peacekeepers who'd executed his loved ones. But he was still waiting for the inner certainty that the scales were balanced. Revenge demanded that Snow lie dead, drowned in his own blood.

"How did you get these?" Rose asked gently.

"Long story."

"Will I hear it one day?"

His eyelids felt so heavy he had to close them. "Shouldn't you be the one telling me a story to help me fall asleep?"

She chuckled quietly, and again he felt the soft touch of her fingers, now brushing the hair off his forehead. "What story would you like to hear?"

"Tell me about cooking for the school. It's futile, you know." He turned his head a little, so he got to rest on her palm. It felt warm and soft. He would not sleep, only rest…

"Maybe I just don't want to feel so damned helpless," she whispered.

He would not sleep. Only…

_There was a footprint. He'd thought it was his own, but he wore shoes, didn't he? He looked down. Yep, shoes, so soaked with his blood they squelched with every step. The blood seeped from the wound in his gut, through his fingers, down his legs, into his shoes. So whose print was it? Smallish. Girl's feet. He'd killed the blond guy from District 1, and muscle girl from 4. Maysilee had shot a poisoned dart into the second career from 4. Then she'd … Had she run? He shook his head and saw blue specks in his field of vision. Blood loss. Mayse was dead. He'd watched the light go out in her eyes. But now there were footprints everywhere and the walls of the arena were closing in on him … He was dying._

/

Rose turned the last page in the book she'd read by the light of the candle and rolled her cramped shoulders. A quick glance at the clock told her it was past midnight. Haymitch had slept for three hours and seemed alright. She got up, stretched like a cat and got a fresh cup of tea from the kettle on the stove. Outside the wind had quieted and freshly fallen snow glowed in the moonlight.

The creaking of the bedstead made her spin around. Had he moved? Was he dreaming? He lay still but his eyes were moving rapidly under the shut eyelids. His arm rose, as if he tried to ward off an attacker. Oh yes, he was dreaming. And badly, it seemed from the way he started to toss his head from one side to the other.

She made sure the knife on the table was out of reach. She had a little experience with nightmares – a classmate in college had suffered from them and she knew not wake the dreamer too abruptly. Still, there was no time to lose. Haymitch had started to sweat. His lips were moving, forming silent words. She grabbed his shoulders and shook him gently. No reaction.

"Haymitch. Wake up!"

His hand smacked against her breast, so hard she stumbled back, but she would not let go. She wrestled him down with some effort, eventually resting on top of him, his hands pinned to the pillow, her head in the crook of his neck.

"Haymitch, wake up. Please." She spoke quietly, but intently.

He came to with a gasp, throwing her off him, backing up against the bed head. His blue eyes stared at her, wide open in shock.

"It's ok," she tried to calm him. Rubbing her elbow, she sat on the side of the bed, tentatively stroking his cheek. His hair was damp with sweat. "You are safe."

"Safe," he repeated slowly. Then he exhaled shakily. "Thank you."

"I did not react in time. I am so sorry."

"I slept. 'S ok," he mumbled, still in a daze. Noticing the way she guarded her elbow, he frowned: "Did I hurt you? Oh damn, I hurt you."

"No. No, you didn't." She moved the candle-stick closer. "I'll give you a fresh shirt."

He watched her with haunted eyes, hugging himself, knees drawn to his chest. She dug a man's shirt out of the trunk where she kept her clothes. A sprig of lavender fell to the floor. The shirt had been Jacob's, she hadn't had the heart to give it away like the rest of his clothes. Carefully she put the lavender back into the trunk, and helped Haymitch to pull his sweat-soaked shirt off.

She gasped when she saw the vicious scar that marked his stomach. The pale puckered line went from his lowest rip down, and disappeared into the waistband of his trousers. He turned away so she couldn't get more than a glimpse, but it must have been a nasty, life-threatening wound. What had happened to him? She'd been too young to watch the Games he'd played in.

"Knife-wound?" she asked, her voice casual when she plumped up the pillow.

He nodded.

She gently forced him back down. And then she kissed him.

He was so surprised he did not react for precious seconds, could only feel, smell, savour. Her soft lips, her scent of honey and cinnamon, her warm hands cupping his face.

"Think you can go back to sleep? I promise I won't let you down again. Or if you can't sleep, we'll just talk."

He closed his eyes again. Maybe this was a dream as well. "Read something to me."

"Alright." She reached for one of the books on the course-work pile, and made herself comfortable in the rocking chair. "I must warn you, this is a very sad story. It's very old, too, probably from before the Dark Days. It's called 'Romeo and Tulip'."

"The star-crossed lovers," he whispered.

"Yeah. … Now where does it start? Ah, here. 'There were once two families in a now forgotten city called Verona.'"

Haymitch closed his eyes, and after a few minutes his deep and regular breaths told Rose he slept again, dreamless this time or at least without nightmares. She read on, until the star-crossed lovers met their fate and the early morning dawn lit up the sky.

/

On Monday morning the Mellark's delivery van jolted up the road to the school and stopped at the gate. Rose knew she had no chance against the fascination of the car, and did not even try to keep the children from gaping out the window. There were only a dozen cars in the District, and most belonged to the mine management or the Peacekeepers. The bakery van bore a sign which once had been bright blue and red, but had faded to a soft purple. The driver's door was dented and one of the side mirrors had not survived contact with a tree or fence post. Still, it was a car and in itself a miracle in a District where the common means of transportation was a pair of shoes.

Peeta slid out of the driver's seat and walked around the van to unload a wooden crate, a few paper bags and two cartons wrapped in wax paper. Rose saw him deliberate where to deliver it. She stepped out of the door and waved.

"Miss Rose," Peeta called. "To the school or the house?"

She pointed him to the house and held the door open for him. He set the heavy crate on the table and wiped his brow. "Haymitch said you were opening a restaurant, like they have in the Capitol. … He was joking, wasn't he?"

Rose only grinned and counted the various sacks of oatmeal, the sugar cone and the bags with nuts and raisins.

"Powdered milk," said Peeta and showed her how to open the wax paper cartons. "No milk to be had for good money. Usually we get it in from District 10, but not this week. But this stuff will last without refrigerating it."

"It's barely five degrees outside, so that's the least of my worries."

"Will you tell me what this is all about?" Peeta, always polite, blushed a little at the intrusion. "I mean, Haymitch hardly ever remembers to buy provisions for himself. So why would he suddenly order oats and nuts and milk powder?

"It's for the kids."

He frowned. "For the … You are cooking for the whole school?"

"Times are tough. A hungry stomach won't learn."

"And Haymitch Abernathy pays for it?"

She saw him wrestle with the concept and had to smile when she remembered Haymitch's face when she'd explained what she wanted for guarding his sleep. _A strange woman_, he'd called her. And she felt strange, did not know herself lately. Kissing Haymitch! Had she betrayed Jacob with this kiss? Sometimes she could not remember his face anymore. He'd felt so real, even long after his death, but now he seemed to fade away more and more.

"Rose?"

She gave a start. "Sorry. Yes, Haymitch pays for it." She gnawed her bottom lip. "I'd rather you kept quiet about this, Peeta. If Commander Cray gets wind of it, he'll put an end to it."

"Sure. My mother will see the bill for the oatmeal and Haymitch's check, and Mr Young from the grocery store will know as well." He shook his head. "Say about my mother what you will, she is not a rumour monger. And Young doesn't care who the customer is as long as the bill is paid."

"Thank you. It's only until next Parcel day."

His brows pulled together in sudden anger. "We heard what happened. Spoilt grain, rancid oil. I asked Mr Undersee about it but there is nothing he can do."

Rose sighed. She also had had several talks with the mayor, each one shorter than the one before. The last time his secretary had claimed he was out on a council meeting when it was obvious he was hiding in his office…

"I almost forgot to congratulate you on your engagement," she changed the topic. "You and Katniss must be very happy."

Peeta stared at her blankly. "My what?"

Then he visibly flinched and drew in a shaky breath. "The engagement, yeah. Thanks. It was a spontaneous decision. Spur of the moment."

"So when's the wedding?"

He busied himself with the powered milk cartons. "No date yet. It got a bit out of hand, with the Capitol barging in. For them a wedding is all about the dress, the hair, the party. When I told them that a traditional District 12 wedding means sharing a piece of toast, they fell over laughing. Cause, you know – where's the publicity value in that?"

Rose felt almost sorry she'd asked him. She remembered his secret glances at Katniss when he thought nobody was noticing it, the longing and the tenderness in his voice when he talked about the girl. Now he sounded bitter and disenchanted.

He rummaged in the crate. "Ah, there it is."

When she looked up, he presented her with another raisin bread – this one much bigger than the small braid Haymitch had fed her two days ago. " It's traditional, we bake hundreds of braided loaves every year for Harvest Day." He cleared his throat. "At least we used to. This year my father only made three dozen, and didn't even sell those. Haymitch said you liked it, so I thought …"

"Thank you!" she beamed at him in delight. "I'll share it with the children after class."

When they stepped out onto the front porch and – as she'd feared – faced four dozen young investigators, she had to laugh. No way her clever students would stay in the class room while outside mysterious crates were delivered, and by their favourite victor!

"Peeta, Peeta, will you tell us a story?" one of the girls demanded.

He consulted his watch.

Rose shooed the kids back into the class room. "If you are in a hurry …"

"Nah, I have time for a story." He followed her and awkwardly took a seat in front of the class on a chair that looked like toy furniture under his well-muscled frame. "What do you want to hear?"

He smiled when they bombarded him with questions.

"Is it true the lights in the Capitol never go out?"

"Is Cesar Flickerman's hair real or a wig?"

"Is it true the train moves so fast you catch fire if you hold a hand out of the window?"

"Did they give you a false leg or sew the old one back on?

Rose saw him wince. She laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed lightly. "How about that? I go back to my house and start cooking. Peeta will tell you about the Districts he saw on the Victor's tour. And then we'll eat porridge together. Since Madge could not come today I have to trust you to be good, while Peeta is alone with you. Think you can do that?"

42 faces, all sincere. 42 nodding heads.

"Peeta, think you can handle them?"

He smirked. "I survived worse. But if you hear me calling for help …"

"I'll come to the rescue."

She left, not without standing outside the closed door for a moment and listening to his pleasant voice starting his tale.

"When I was your age, I always thought District 12 was the largest of them all. Turns out I was wrong! Imagine looking out of the train – and yes, it is _very_ fast – and going for hours through fields and woods and suddenly you see … Do you have any chalk for that blackboard? I better draw you a picture. Well, it looked something like this …"

She smiled when she heard chalk scratching on the board, and not a whisper from the enchanted kids. Peeta Mellark did not need rescuing. He'd hold his own.

/

"Hi there."

"Hi yourself."

She had the cutest smile, Haymitch thought, when Rose greeted him. A little crooked, a bit shy. It felt surprisingly good to make her smile by just being there.

They had met behind the Hob. She used Saturday and Sunday to clean and mend and prepare course-work for the week ahead, and also to sell her honey and wax candles at the black market. Haymitch had to accept her fierce independence, even if he could and would have gladly bought the stuff she had to offer. Not that he needed candles or honey – but the time she could spare him was short enough as it was, even without her spending all afternoon on the market. Still, the three nights he had spent at her house so far had given him many hours of precious sleep. And a kiss… This morning he had looked at the liquor bottle on his kitchen cupboard and set it back, the seal unbroken.

_'Love of a good woman,_' he thought, while she fastened her shawl and put on knitted gloves. _'Good man gone bad meets woman who loves him and never drinks a drop again._' He smirked. Here he was, 40 years old and a seasoned drinker – he knew all too well that things didn't work like that.

And still…

The narrow alley smelled of the coal dust that had settled deep into every crease and fold of the building. This had not always been a ramshackle market. The building had once been a warehouse for coal, the rusty tracks that led through the door a silent reminder of its industrial past. Haymitch remembered his father working in the office on the second floor, organizing the loading and shipping of coal. It must have been in '43 or '44, since his father had died in late spring in '45. Robard Abernathy had always called the warehouse a firetrap, a furnace in waiting. All that coal dust… A broken kerosene lamp, even the sparks off a freight-waggon wheel could incinerate the old wood. Another reason Haymitch wanted Rose out of the building before nightfall – which in early December meant by four o'clock.

He took her basket and resisted the urge to check if she'd bought any food for starving children or the community centre which was her latest pet project. Rose smiled, when she saw his wary glance at the basket.

"Ink," she said and showed him the small bottle. "And stuff for something Peeta tasted in the Capitol and said you liked as well."

"To be honest I try to stick strictly to a liquid diet when I am there."

She laughed, and it pleased him immensely. "No, it's something called 'Pizzle'. Bread-dough and tomatoes and cheese?"

"_Pizzle_," he nodded with a dead-pan face. "Ah yeah, who'd ever forget the Capitol's famous pizzle."

She stared up at him warily. "Not 'pizzle' then? Haymitch Abernathy, stop laughing at me!"

"You spent four years at college in the Capitol. Don't say you never had pizza? "

"Very funny. We got rice and beans, and potatoes and rice. Sometimes beans and potatoes. Nothing of the things Peeta describes. No ice-cream, no chocolate fountains for us humble teachers from the Districts." A wistful sigh. "I tasted chocolate once…. Oh my! Jacob always said I'd leave him and marry a chocolate bar the instant one found its way to 12A."

They'd turned a corner and now both stopped in their tracks.

"What's going on over there?" Rose pointed at a crowd that had formed at the edge of the square. Only now Haymitch noticed how quiet it was, even for a freezing December afternoon when everybody would want to stay at home.

"Stay back." He pushed her behind him. Something was very wrong. Coldness seeped into his bones. His hand gripped the switchblade in his coat pocket.

A sharp cracking sound. He saw Rose frown, trying to identify it. His throat got dry. He know only too well what was going on, he did not need to push the spectators aside. A flogging. But why? By whom? And who was the victim?

"Rose, I want you to go home," he said as calmly as he could manage. "Lock your doors. Wait for me."

Even as he spoke he knew she'd not heed his words. Already she tried to get past him. Then they heard a cry, and Rose broke free of his hold and forced her way through the silent crowd. Haymitch grabbed her by the shoulder and drew her back.

"I said, keep out of this! Go home!"

He slipped into the breach. People stared at him, recognized him, stepped back to let him pass. Cursing under his breath he pushed ahead until he stumbled onto the square. He'd been right – a whipping post, the Head Peacekeeper with a heavy leather whip, just as he'd assumed. Only much worse. Gale kneeled by the wooden post, held up only by his bound wrists. His back was bloody, his wrists raw. A dead turkey was nailed onto the post. 'Poaching,' thought Haymitch with relief. 'One bird, that's forty lashes.' But why would Cray shun a perfectly good turkey?

Then the Head Peacekeeper turned, and he saw it was not Cray at all, but a stranger. And the slumped down figure on the ground, groggy from a vicious blow, was Katniss…

The Peacekeeper drew his pistol.

"Damn it!" Haymitch cursed silently. "Damn it, damn it." The girl had a gift for trouble.

Then everything went very fast. He ran across the square, dripped over a body on the floor – Darius? Was that Darius? – and threw himself between the pistol and Katniss.

"Hold it!"

It sounded dangerously like an order and he winced inwardly. Peacekeepers did not like to get orders from civilians on the best of days. This stranger could easily execute him on the spot, just like that. So he'd better get the man to think about consequences before he pulled that trigger. No Peacekeeper liked paperwork – and killing a victor meant paperwork, if nothing else. What they liked even less was interfering with the Capitol. So…

He pulled Katniss to her feet. "Excellent," he snarled and checked her face which already showed a bruise. "Just excellent! What am I going to tell her stylist?"

"Who are you?" snarled the Peacekeeper, his pistol wavering between two targets.

"I am Haymitch, Haymitch Abernathy. Ring no bell?"

The pistol pointed straight at him.

"And she's Katniss Everdeen, this year's victor, darling of the Capitol."

"Everdeen? … She assaulted an officer." The Peacekeeper rested the whip on his hip. "She interrupted the punishment of a confessed criminal."

His accent sounded odd. District 2? The Capitol? Haymitch just shot him a disgusted glance and turned Katniss' jaw into the light. "You see that bruise? Think she can go on air like this? She's got a photo shoot next week modelling wedding dresses, blast it!"

"That's not my problem." There was a shade of doubt in the man's voice now, and Haymitch exhaled slowly.

"Yeah? Well, you just made it your problem! Who the hell authorized you to mess up my pretty victor's face? Did you hit her with a _whip_?" His voice dripped with outrage.

"This man was poaching, and this is a public punishment according to the District code." The Peacekeeper kicked Gale's shin with his heavy boot, and Haymitch felt Katniss flinch in his arms. He held her in a vicelike grip – her jumping a Peacekeeper was the last thing he needed.

"He's her cousin." Peeta took Katniss off him and held her just as fast as Haymitch had. Good boy. "And she's my fiancée."

Maybe the Head Peacekeeper had not recognized Katniss without the heavy makeup, but Peeta looked much as he had in the countless news reports. So there were three victors now – which meant a lot of paperwork, many inconvenient questions, probably an official inquiry…

Haymitch kept his eyes at Gale while he addressed the man with the whip. You did not stare a wild animal in the eyes if you wanted to calm it, did you? "We won't cause trouble, Commander."

Nobody in his right mind would kill three victors at once, not even a crazed Peacekeeper. The people on the square kept silent. Haymitch could not blame them. They – Peeta and Katniss and he – were probably the only ones in the District who could make a stand like this and walk away. There'd be repercussions, he knew that. But for now…

After a short consultation the new Head Peacekeeper let them go, not without announcing a curfew by nightfall. The threat of a firing squad was met with shocked silence. Then the Peacekeepers fell into formation and marched off the square. Only a small group stayed behind and lifted Darius up by his arms and legs. A huge purple bruise had formed on the man's forehead, and Haymitch saw that he bled from nose and ears. But he was still breathing.

He pulled his knife from his pocket and went to cutting the rope that bound Gale's wrists.

"What happened?" he asked one of the young miners who helped him.

Obviously Gale had been at the wrong place at the worst time – until today Cray, the Head Peacekeeper, had been his best customer for poached turkey. So Gale had knocked on the headquarters' back door in expectation of a tidy sum for the bird. But Cray had been relieved from his post by Romulus Thread only hours before. And Commander Thread had taken the opportunity to state an example. If it had been more than one bird, or if they'd found any weapons on Gale, there'd have been an execution, not just whipping, gruesome as it was.

"Where's Cray now?"

Bristel shrugged. "Someone heard a shot from the Justice Building. You know, from the blood yard? " The inner yard had not been in use for more than ten years, but everybody knew where the death sentences were enforced.

Peeta organized a board from a clothing stall they could use as a stretcher. Most of the square had emptied by then, the fear of catching the eye of a patrolling Peacekeeper greater than compassion or curiosity.

Haymitch shivered with sudden exhaustion when the adrenalin from his confrontation with the new Head Peacekeeper subsided. He'd have given almost everything for a drink, but getting Gale medical attention was the top priority now. Katniss' face was white with shock and fear when she picked up Gale's discarded jacket.

Haymitch turned to Rose. "Can you manage?"

She pressed her lips together and heaved her side of the board up. Haymitch grit his teeth. Stubborn woman, he'd told her to go home, hadn't he? What if there'd been a riot? What if the Peacekeepers had felt threatened and decided to shoot into the crowd? In a flash he saw her dead on the ground, bleeding, trampled, shot. He shook his head violently to clear his mind. The evening was long from over.

Together they lifted the stretcher and set out for the Victors' Village. Fortunately the road to the village was freshly ploughed for the eventuality of sudden visits from Capitol officials or camera teams who could not be expected to drudge through knee-deep snow. Gale did not utter a sound while they carried him, he was mercifully out. Haymitch could only hope that this state would last a while. Cleaning the open welts a flogging caused meant incredible pain. There had been a time, before Cray, when the whipping post had been in use every other week. Iris Everdeen had treated the victims then - she'd better not have forgotten all she knew about broken skin and torn flesh.

Obviously she hadn't. When they arrived, Prim held the door wide open. She was pale and bit her lips anxiously, but she did not flinch when she saw what they brought. As soon as they were through the door, she shooed them into the kitchen where her mother waited. The sturdy oak table had been cleaned and prepared, a bowl with steaming water and various herbs sat on a stool. Iris helped them to transfer Gale from the stretcher onto the table.

Katniss' mother worked in silence, never hesitating. She cleansed the wound and sent Katniss outside to get a bowl full of snow to cool Gale's broken skin and her black eye. When the girl was gone, she turned to Haymitch and arched an eyebrow. He remembered her like this – she had been Conner Everdeen's wife then, but still very young, a baby on the way, her tiny kitchen the only infirmary in the Seam. And she'd been utterly fearless, not the empty shell of a woman she'd turned into after Conner's death.

"New Head," said Haymitch, and it was enough to evoke memories of the past they all shared – all but Rose. He turned to her and tentatively touched her face. She felt clammy and cold, her skin too pale, her breath too flat. He made her sit by the fire and wrapped her in his woollen jacket. Then he told Thom and Bristel, the young miners who'd helped carry Gale, to go home, and handed them the money he had on him. If the bad old times were back, they'd need it. The mine would be closed until every spark of resistance was dead and everyone so hungry and worried for their families that they'd gladly accept lower wages and longer hours. The District code would be read from the steps of the Justice Building with all citizens in attendance. There'd be more curfews and floggings. And executions.

Iris stared at him, and he noticed he'd stroked Rose's hair absentmindedly. He dropped his hand, suddenly embarrassed.

"She's in shock. Apparently Peacekeepers up in 12A are not as crude as our valiant troops."

Iris nodded. "It takes some getting used to."

Rose pulled his jacket tighter around her shoulders. "You mean, this is_ normal_? Whipping a man until he's half dead?"

"It was, at least under Smithson, the Head Peacekeeper before Cray. Now this new man … What was his name again?" Iris looked at Haymitch.

"Thread," he supplied and set the kettle back on the stove. Rose needed something warm, and he needed a drink, urgently. "Commander Romulus Thread, and his uniform is the whitest you've ever seen. But for the blood spots."

Prim helped him to fix a mug with valerian tea for Rose. When it was warming her hands, he uncorked the bottle of medicinal alcohol Iris had used to clean Gale's abrasions and emptied a generous shot into his own mug. Ignoring Prim's dark glance he downed it. The liquor burned like fire and for a moment erased everything, the fear, the cold, the pain.

He took in the room. Gale was in good hands with Iris and Prim. Peeta had forced Katniss to sit down and drink some tea as well. He'd have to get Rose home, although curfew had already started. But the Peacekeepers would not control the footpath that led to the school. For a fleeting moment he considered taking her to his own house. It was much closer, and he felt safe there. Then he remembered the state of his living room, the debris of so many sleepless nights, the dozen or so empty bottles, and reconsidered. Her house, her bed, a warm blanket, and maybe he'd indulge in sitting with her for a while and stroking her hair until she could sleep.

The door opened, and with a gust of icy wind and snow Hazelle Hawthorne burst into the kitchen. Her face was pale, her eyes bright with unshed tears. She swallowed when she saw her son unconscious on the kitchen table, most of his upper back resembling raw meat, the skin torn and bloody.

Haymitch knew what was about to happen, felt the sting of the slap even before Hazelle drew back her hand and hit him hard in the face. Blood trickled down his chin from where her wedding band cut his lip.

He closed his eyes, fisted his hand around the edge of the table and let her say what she had to say. He deserved both her contempt and her anger. Another promise broken, more blood on his hands...

"You bastard!" Her voice was hoarse with hatred. "I warned you to stay away from my boy!"

He nodded. There was nothing left to say.

"Haymitch?" Rose's mug fell and splintered on the hardwood floor, when she got up and reached out for him.

He shook his head. "No, Rose."

"What …"

"No."

They stared at him, Katniss and Peeta, Iris and Prim, and Rose … his Rose, who fell in love only with saints and heroes and would now realise he was neither. He could not bear it any longer. Keeping his eyes carefully averted from her shocked and hurt face, he left the Everdeen's kitchen.

/

_To be continued._


	5. Solitary confinement

**Chapter 05 - SOLIDARY CONFINEMENT**

Rose woke up with a start. Once again she did not know where she was. Not 12A, not the teacher's house. A living room, much larger than hers, with a fire place and a polished oak table. She'd slept on an elegant velvet sofa, wrapped in a warm fur cover. Sleep-dazed, she rubbed her face. Something – a button? – had dug into her cheek. What she'd thought a pillow was really a man's jacket. Haymitch's jacket.

Now she remembered. Haymitch's face. The slap. Hazelle's fury. Gale's bloody back. The new Head Peacekeeper. It was barely light outside. On a winter's day the sun rose at eight, so she'd slept ten hours, but it felt like ten minutes. Her bones ached. She moaned, when she got up from the sofa. Her head hurt, her throat was sore. She felt like she'd caught the worst cold ever, but maybe it was just a reaction to last night.

They'd let Haymitch leave, just like that. Iris had held her back, had coaxed her into the living room, had given her … a sleeping draft? She still wore yesterday's clothes, but her hair had escaped the pins und hung down to her shoulders. The mirror over the fireplace showed her a ghostly face with wild hair.

She had to go and find Haymitch, and ask him what last evening's exchange with Hazelle was all about. He'd explain. And then she could go and sleep. Maybe he'd even take her home. Maybe he'd stay with her for a while… If only she weren't so tired.

The house was silent. She'd heard Hazelle leave last night, but the Everdeens and Gale must be there. The second door she tried led to the kitchen. Katniss sat on a low stool, her head propped on her forearm against the table, her fingers entwined with Gale's. Melted snow had soaked the linen Iris had covered the broken skin on Gale's back with, and water dripped onto the kitchen floor and formed a puddle under the table. Rose tried to ignore the reddish tinge of the melt-water.

Katniss' head shot up, when Rose gently touched her arm.

"How is he?"

The girl rubbed her eyes with her wrist like a child who'd cried in her sleep. "Better, I guess. The morphling helped him sleep."

"Morphling?" The drug was highly restricted and way too expensive for the Seam, but maybe a victor like Katniss could afford …

"We didn't have any. My mother tried, but they only subscribe it to Capitol officials and the District doctors." Katniss got up and winced when she stretched her cramped thighs. "Then suddenly Madge showed up with two vials."

Mayor Undersee's wife took Morphling for the crippling migraines she suffered from. "That was very kind of her." Especially since Mrs Undersee have to go without for at least a week until the apothecary could restock his supply. Rose could just imagine kind gentle Madge, being forced to choose between her mother and the man she loved. Those Morphling vials meant a lot of pain for the one who had to go without.

Katniss lifted the soaked cover with two fingers and checked Gale's back. "I'll get fresh snow," she said to Rose. "Will you stay with him? I'll only be a minute."

Rose looked around for a bucket and a mop and cleaned the wet floor. It was enough to make her dizzy. She sat down on the stool and watched Gale sleep. When his eyelids fluttered she patted his limp hand. "Hey. How do you feel?"

"Like crap." His voice was hoarse. She'd heard him scream in pain before he'd lost consciousness, and his bottom lip had split and made talking difficult. "What happened?"

"You are a very lucky man, Gale Hawthorne. You have friends who'll stand between you and a pistol."

His face screwed up. She could see the very moment he remembered. "Katniss? She alright?"

"She's fine."

"I went to Cray. Had a turkey." He moved his arm and flinched in sudden pain. "Ouch!"

"Lay still! Cray is gone. There's a new Head Peacekeeper."

"Stoneface." Gale's hand balled into a fist. "Guy hit me. Nailed my bird to the post. "

She smiled a little, hearing the indignation in his voice. Then his eyes flew open. "The bottle."

"What bottle?"

"I … had a bottle." He tried to push himself up onto his forearms and the pain made him gasp. "When they took me, I had a bottle of white liquor on me."

"You mustn't drink now," said Prim, with a very matronly undertone in her voice. She'd come to the kitchen in her pyjamas and undone braids and looked younger than her 13 years. "You had morphling, and your body should not have to deal with two drugs at once while it heals."

"It's not for me. It's for Haymitch."

"Oh well, if it is for Haymitch …" Prim raised both hands in mock surrender. She spooned ground coffee in a small pot, filled it with water and set it on the stove.

A short knock on the door made them all freeze. But it was only Peeta who set a large fresh loaf on the table. He seemed very much at home in the Everdeens' kitchen, and helped Prim prepare breakfast, searching for the bread knife and gathering milk and butter from the fridge.

Gale breathed through his nose to keep the pain at bay. He lowered himself down until he lay flat again. Then he reached for Rose's hand and pulled her closer. "The cork. Haymitch needs the cork."

"What would he do with a cork? Lick it?" snorted Prim. She held a towel under the water tap.

Rose pressed the back of her hand against Gale's burning forehead. "You are feverish."

"Don't care," he whispered hoarsely. "You must get that cork, Rose. They smashed the bottle on the whipping post after they read the sentence. I remember now. If we are lucky, it is still there." When she reached for the wet towel Prim passed her to cool his head, Gale gripped her hand so hard she winced. "Please, Rose!"

"He'll calm down once the fever breaks," Prim explained. "They tell the strangest stories in this state."

"I know." Rose straightened and had to hold on to the table until the spell of dizziness passed. "Only…" She remembered something glittering in the light next to the whipping post. Shards of glass. A broken bottle? "I have to check. Only to be sure."

When Katniss came back with a large bowl of fresh snow, Rose was leaving, bundled up in a borrowed sweater and Haymitch's jacket. Iris Everdeen, exhausted from a too short night and too much sorrow, half-heartedly tried to hold her back.

"There'll be Peacekeepers. What if they arrest you?"

"I'll give them no reason. If there really is a cork, I'll pick it up and I'll deliver it to Haymitch. I have to return the coat, anyway." She dug her hands deep into the pockets in sudden embarrassment and felt something hard and smooth. When she pulled it out, she realized it was a switchblade.

She dropped the knife into a puzzled Peeta's hand and left the house.

They watched her walk down the unploughed road, until Peeta remembered to close the door. Later, when Gale slept after another dose of Morphling and the others sat in the living room having breakfast, it was Prim who pronounced what they all thought: "I'd rather face the Peacekeepers than wake Haymitch after what happened last night."

/

It kept snowing all morning and when Rose reached Haymitch's house, the snow was knee deep. Her excursion had been successful – as Gale had described, there were glass shards all around the whipping post. She'd only had to wait until the guards in front of the Justice Building were relieved, wander past the post and pick up the cork. It was frozen and brittle, and when she felt for it in her pocket on her way back to the Victors' Village, it split neatly in half. To her surprise and confusion it contained a small piece of paper, with a row of numbers and letters that made absolutely no sense to her. So this was one of the secret messages Gale delivered – and obviously he'd lied to her when he'd claimed to be oblivious how they arrived in the district and who they were meant for. Or Ripper had never told him what it really was he delivered to Haymitch. Haymitch of all people, who laughed whenever Rose complained about the Capitol, or got angry and accused her of playing at revolution…

The house was dark like its empty neighbours. In other districts they had more victors, so their villages housed several families. But here in Twelve it was only Haymitch and, since the last Games, Peeta and the Everdeens.

Shivering in spite of the woollen sweater and the coat, Rose let the bronze knocker fall against the wooden door. Nobody answered. She tried again. Still no answer. The house seemed unoccupied. While Peeta had painted his door in a cheery orange, and Iris Everdeen had decorated theirs with a winter wreath, Haymitch's house appeared shabby, like no-one ever wasted a minute sweeping the front steps. But the storm shutters were closed.

Tentatively Rose tried the door knob. The door creaked open when she gave it a slight push. She stepped inside and softly called out: "Haymitch?"

No answer. Maybe he was not at home? Maybe he'd gone to the Hob – but no, she'd seen Peacekeepers in a tight cordon all around the old warehouse. Nobody in their right mind would get close to that building today. So where was he?

She tried to turn on the lights. The power was on because she could see the light in the Everdeen's windows. But here she heard only the dry click of the switch. When she left the door open, enough wintery daylight fell into the hall to let her see the landing and the stairs to the upper floor. There were four doors that led away from the hall. Since all the mansions looked alike, Rose assumed they shared a common floor plan. So the first door to her left would be a broom cabinet – she'd seen Prim fetch a bucket from theirs. Then the kitchen, dining room, living room. She'd have to try them all.

It was dark in the kitchen, and as in the hall, the lights would not work. The storm shutters kept the hazy daylight out. Rose suppressed her unease and stepped into the darkness. Although the houses in the Village were outfitted with modern appiances, the Everdeens' had a hearth as well. So there should be matches somewhere, and hopefully candles. Hands outstretched, she padded through the room, banged her hip at the table and found the hearth. Her search for a matchbox almost pushed a vase off the shelf, but eventually she could strike a match.

The dry sizzle had never sounded more comforting. Protecting the flame in the hollow of her hand, she lit a candle from a whole box next to the hearth. Obviously the power cuts affected even the Victors' Village.

In the candlelight she took in the state of the kitchen. The smell was … off, like milk left carelessly out, burned stew, male sweat and spilled liquor. It reminded her of the men's washhouse in the mine in 12A.

Haymitch was fast asleep, slouching over the kitchen table. He wore neither shoes nor shirt, his elbow lovingly curled around a half full bottle. More were on the table, on the floor, under the chair. If he'd drunk them all, he'd be out for hours. It was freezing cold in the kitchen, and the open door in the hall did not make it any better. Rose went in search of a blanket, and closed the entrance door.

She'd have bet that nobody had used the dining room since the interior decorator had finished with it. The dust on the once beautiful ebony table was thick as moss. She coughed and firmly closed the door. The living room was in a better state. There had been a fire in the stove not too long ago, since it was still lukewarm. There was a comfortable couch, a stuffed armchair, a chessboard on a small table. And books, so many books. Shelves stuffed with books, most of them old and certainly not Capitol-approved. Her fingers itched to touch them, but first she had to find a blanket. In 12A, drunk men had died from cold not just once, when they'd lost the way back home and fell asleep outside. With all the snow it was getting dangerously cold in the house. She'd cover Haymitch with a blanket, light a fire in the kitchen hearth and the stove, and wait until he was responsive again. And she'd ask Iris for a hangover-remedy once she'd attended to the fires.

Gathering up a plaid from the chair, she was about to return to the kitchen when she saw the half hidden door. Stepping closer, she studied it thoughtfully. One of the bookshelves was cleverly constructed so it would slide and cover a narrow door set into the wall next to the chimney. Like the entrance door it was not locked.

Rose bit her lip. Then she raised the candle and entered the hidden room.

Here the smell of seat was prevalent. There were no windows, but when she turned the switch, a set of bright lights went on. Frowning, she looked about. A mirrored wall. A rack with different knives. Targets in the shape of human figures, some of them sliced to ribbons. A blade still stuck in one, right were the heart would be. What in the world was this?

A click and the light went out. She squeaked in alarm and spun around for the door. Her attacker had her in a death grip before she could reach it. He forced her against the wall, a forearm pressed against her throat, threatening to strangle her.

"What do you want? Who sent you?"

The voice was Haymitch's, slurred and hoarse, but undeniably his.

Rose sobbed and pushed her hand against his chest, but he would not let her go.

"Who sent you?"

Feeling dizzy, she kicked at his shin and when he instinctively dodged, she sunk her teeth into his arm – a move Jacob's brother had taught her so many years ago.

He hissed and let go, only to trip her and force her to the floor, face down.

"It's me, Rose!" She cried out in pain when he almost wrenched her arms out of their sockets.

"Rose." He sounded confused.

She gasped for air. "Let go of me!"

"Rose?" He loosened his grip, just enough to give her space to breath, but still held her with cruel efficiency.

"Please, Haymitch, let go!" she pleaded. One move and the bone in her upper arm would snap.

He held her with one hand now and reached for the light switch. When the bright lights went on and he could see her, he swore loudly. Then he instantaneously let go and backed away. For a long moment she just lay there, waiting for the pain to subside, and for her heartbeat to slow down. The mirror showed her how Haymitch tried to steady himself at the wall, and then gave up and slid slowly down to the floor. Still without shoes and shirt, he sat there like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

His hair hung wildly in his face. Rose recognized the strange scars on his left forearm, much too regular to be the result of an accident. The vile scar that crossed his stomach on the other hand spoke of violence. Someone had once tried to kill him with some kind of sharp blade, and they had almost succeeded.

Her gaze met his in the mirror. "What do you want, Rose?"

She slowly picked herself up and crawled on hands and knees to the opposite wall, bringing a safe distance between them. The cork was still in her coat pocket, and she threw it at him, missing him by a yard. He effortlessly caught it out of the air and turned it in his fingers.

"I see."

"Do you?" she asked, still shaken. "Gale insisted you had to get this … thing. And I wanted to … to make certain you …" Her voice broke. Now that the immediate threat was over, her body reacted with trembling muscles and hot tears.

Haymitch waited patiently until she'd pulled herself together. "You wanted to make certain I …" he asked.

"… you were ok," she finished the sentence. "I don't understand. Why did Hazelle hit you like that?"

He rubbed a forearm over his eyes and got up wearily. "Hazelle is very protective of Gale. He'd just been flogged. There's your answer."

"No." She shook her head. The question had bugged her all the way from the square back to the Village. "She said: 'I told you to stay away from my boy.' But you did not flog him. So why should she hold you responsible?"

"I've no idea." One of his fair brows arched when he saw she did not believe him. "You tell me."

"Maybe it's about the message in the cork."

"Fuck." He stared at the cork, only now noticing it had been opened. "Where is it, Rose?"

She tried to shrug, then thought better of it and rubbed her aching shoulder instead.

"I am not in the mood for games, Rose," he said through gritted teeth. "Where is the paper?"

"So it is for you then? You are the next man in line, the one who puts the messages under the bee hive for Gale to deliver?"

"Oh hell!" His fist hit the wall, and he winced in pain. "Give me the paper!"

Rose dug it out of her pocket, a damp sliver of paper. Haymitch ripped it out of her hand and studied it closely. He exhaled slowly.

"Ok." He offered her a hand to help her up, but she pushed it away. It took some effort but she got to her feet without his help. He let her pass into the living room and closed the door, sliding the book-shelf until it was fully disguised.

Rose slipped out of the coat and placed it carefully on the back of the couch. "This is yours, you left it at the Everdeens."

Haymitch lit a candle on in a silver holder on the mantle-piece. Only now did Rose notice that all the light-bulbs had been smashed. No lights. The storm shutters closed. To trap an unwanted visitor? But why …

"I want in," she said, surprised by the calm and self-assured tone of her voice. "You and Gale, you are part of a conspiracy against the Capitol, and I want in."

"Don't be ridiculous!" he barked. "There is no conspiracy. Ripper sends me a note now or then to let me know when the next moonshine is ready. Can't let the Peacekeepers know."

"Bullshit."

"Yeah?" He held the paperslip into the candle-flame and set it on fire. "See? There is no conspiracy, and even if there were one you would not be part of it!"

"Just because I am a woman…"

He stared at her. "It got nothing to do with you being a woman, believe me."

"So why then?"

"Why?" He raked a hand through his matted hair. "You may have noticed that people are being flogged? Soon there'll be executions. You saw Gale. Thread and his sort are capable of much worse."

"So we just pretend everything is fine? We keep our heads down and close our eyes?"

"Exactly. Rose, I am serious. All talk of rebellion must cease immediately. This will go by, it always did. Do not provoke them. They just wait for a chance to make an example."

Listlessly Rose picked up the blanket she'd dropped on the couch before entering the secret room. "They are only … what, hundred? And we are …"

"WE are workers, women, children. We have no weapons, no combat-training, no escape route. Make no mistake – they'll come at us with hovercrafts and grenades at the first sign of insurgence. It will be like shooting fish in a barrel. And if they have to, the Capitol will not hesitate to repeat what they did to District 13."

The fatalism in his voice made Rose's eyes burn with tears. "If we all stand together…"

"They'll crush us."

"Okay." She swallowed her tears and wiped her nose with the sleeve of her sweater. "Maybe you are right."

"_Maybe?_" he hissed. "Rose, I warn you …"

She raised both hands. "Okay."

"So now be a good girl, go home and let me sleep off my hangover," he drawled, slipping into the coat she'd discarded. "I am not too keen on visitors when I am wasted."

"I thought we were friends." Her voice sounded pathetic and she despised herself for it. Her hands gripped the blanket to her chest.

"Ah sweetheart, don't be so naïve," he snarled. He kept his back to her and picked up a bottle from the floor. "A sob-story about nightmares, and you let me sleep in your bed, you tuck me in, you kiss me. Two more nights and I'd had you were I wanted you."

"Where you wanted me?"

"In bed!" The bottle crashed against the wall. "That was the plan, damn it!"

When she did not answer, he spun around, grabbed her by the arms and forced her against the book-shelf. "Say it. Say you are disgusted."

She stared into his eyes, normally bright blue, now a stormy grey. Something was off…

"I don't think so," she whispered and raised a hand to touch his cheek. "I think we could have been … more than friends. I think you are scared."

"Scared," he repeated with an undertone she could not define.

"I think you have been alone for a very long time. You have made yourself comfortable behind a wall of booze and sarcasm, and now you are scared of what may become of you if you tear down that wall."

"Really." He still held her, and her hand was still on his cheek. She smelled the liquor in his breath, felt the beard stubble under her palm.

"Really." She drew a line from his jawbone to his brow. "I know it's …"

"You know nothing!" he snarled, his eyes blazing in sudden fury. "You have no idea!"

He yanked her up, crushed her lips in a brutal parody of a kiss. His hands held her face in a vice, his body grinded into hers.

There was no reminder of the man who'd slept in her bed, who'd given her the old song-book, who'd carried her basket from the Hob. This was a stranger, brutal and fierce, and she fought him tooth and nail. When he suddenly let go, she stumbled back, her hand pressed to her lips. It came away bloody from where he'd bit her.

Haymitch's face was a mask of scorn. "Now you know."

He pointed at the door. "Go home, sweetheart. We'll never be _friends_, you hear me?" He said the word with venom, like a cuss. "Leave, and don't come back.

So she left.

The meadow between the Village and the town was a white blanket, undisturbed by human tracks. The road was only a memory. All was silent. No-one braved the snowfall and the cold.

For once Rose was glad she was all alone. No-one heard her cry as she walked home.

/

Haymitch stood in front of the mirror.

She was safe now. He'd hurt her, but she was safe as long as nothing linked her to him. He'd been negligent for a while, and Gale had had to pay for it. But not Rose, never Rose…

He rubbed his left forearm. No dreams for him. No second chance.

He smashed the bottle into the mirror. Broken glass hailed down and put out the candle on the mantlepiece. Just as well. Darkness was a friend, the only one he could afford.

/

In late February thaw-weather set in and melted the frozen snowdrifts. Rose lay awake at night and listened to the wind in the hornbeam behind the house. Tomorrow she'd clean the house, scrub the floors, wipe the windows, throw out the winter and let spring in. For the first time in weeks she felt strong enough to plan further ahead than the next day.

On midwinter's day she'd lit candles for those who'd passed. One for her parents, one for her Gran, one for Jacob. And, in a fit of anger and grief one for Haymitch Abernathy, who was not dead, but cut out of her life just as well. The candles had not burned down yet when she'd felt the ague, and only hours later she had to take to her bed with fever. She only partly remembered her fever dreams – pleading with Jacob to come back from the darkness, raging at Haymitch to take a risk and not give up on life... Madge had found her the next morning, burning and shivering, with a raw throat and aching joints, and had run to Iris Everdeen for help. Iris had diagnoses tonsillitis and prescribed bed-rest and fever root. Rose had felt too weak to protest. Since Madge was only a student herself and could not be expected to handle five dozen children, the school had been closed for three weeks.

As had the mine, or so Madge told Rose on her daily visits. As the mayor's daughter, Madge was a fountain of information. Parcel day had been suspended. As Haymitch had anticipated, the new Head Peacekeeper lost no time to break the District's spirit. Three weeks without wages meant three weeks without business for the merchants. The Hob was destroyed, burned down, Madge reported. It had gone up in flames like kindling. Ripper was in the stocks. Karel, the old man who'd bought Rose's wax candles, had been taken to Headquarters for 'questioning', never to be seen again.

While Rose sat in her armchair, huddled in a blanket, eating chicken-soup sent by Mrs Undersee, Madge swept the room, shook out the covers and pillows and brewed tea. When there was nothing to do and all rumours were told, she opened her bag and held out a thick envelope to Rose.

"Please open it. I just can't gather the courage."

Rose smiled weakly. "So this is it."

In late fall Madge had finally succeeded in convincing her father to let her apply for teachers' college. Her grades were outstanding and she had months of work experience in the Seam school, so Rose had been sure the girl would pass the first step of the application process with flying colours. The second one was much more difficult. Only 60 students would be admitted in the end, five from each district.

She cut the envelope's flap with a butter knife and silently read the letter. 'Undersee, Marjorie, born 14'11'58, District 12…" She looked up, smiling. "They let you take the entrance exam. Congratulations!"

Madge jumped up and hugged her in exultation, until Rose's head spun and she had to push the girl away to get some air.

"Sorry! Oh Rose, I was so afraid they'd not take me … and at the same time I was afraid they would! But now it is decided, and I am so glad."

The reason she'd been afraid to go to college had of course been Gale. Rose sighed inwardly. The young man did not give Madge the time of the day, and she still aligned her life with his like a compass needle with true north.

"Did you speak to Gale? Have you even seen him lately?"

Dispirited Madge shook her head. "No. He works double shifts, that I know from Posy. I did tell you how nobody dared to give Hazelle laundry, after Gale was flogged, didn't I?"

Rose knew Madge had tried to help, had pleaded with her father to let Hazelle work in the Undersee's household, but the mayor had refused. "Gale's wages can't supply a family of five, not even with double shifts."

"He had to let Rory take tesserae." Madge avoided Rose's gaze. She knew what the teacher thought of the mean rations which turned the odds against you in the Reaping. "But now Hazelle has a job, maybe Rory can stop." She wiped the already spotless table with her sleeve. "Haymitch took her in as a housekeeper." The words tumbled out in a rush. "Katniss says the house is really clean now and Hazelle cooks for him and does his laundry, and he hates it and tries to get out of the house when she arrives in the morning and only comes back when she's gone, which can't be easy now Ripper is out of business and there is no liquor to be had for love or good money." Out of breath she had to stop eventually.

"I am glad for Hazelle," Rose said, her voice not betraying any emotion. "And no, I don't want to talk about Haymitch Abernathy."

"But…"

"No."

Madge sighed. "Okay. I'd rather talk about my application, anyway. The envelope arrived yesterday and I kept it under my pillow and could not open it! I was so afraid."

"Honey, why wouldn't they accept you? I can't think of anybody who'll make a better teacher!"

Madge beamed. "I learned so much from you! Thank you for letting me help out. And thank you for telling my father he had to let me apply." She spread the content of a thick envelope on the kitchen table. "Oh my! Just listen!"

She read out the long list of forms, statements and certificates the applicants had to send in. "This one I already have, and I can take a First-Aid-course with the mine's doctor anytime. But the essay…" She looked at Rose, confusion written all over her face. "What do they mean by 'aspiration'?"

"They want you to write an essay on what you aspire to. What you want from life." Rose drew the blanket tighter around her shoulders. She chilled easily these days. "You do know you must not be honest in this essay, do you?"

Madge frowned. "No? So why write it at all?"

"Because you want to become a teacher. But they want you to become their instrument. So you must balance on a very fine edge. Write the essay, describe how deeply you feel for Panem, how you'd sacrifice everything for your country…"

"But I would, honestly!" Madge's eyes were big and earnest, and Rose felt tears prick her eyes. Had she been like this sweet gullible girl once? Had she really believed what they told them in their reports, in their history books, in their lectures?

"Write the essay then. But, Madge? Do me a favour. Write something else – a letter to yourself, if you like. Write down what you really want from life, what you desire the most, what your most secret dream is. Don't send it to the Capitol, seal it and hide it away so you can read it in, say 10 years? And then ask yourself if you made that dream come true."

The girl stared at her. "Did you? I mean, write a letter to yourself?"

"No. But I wish I had. Because some dreams get lost on the way."

/

It was past midnight. The moon hid behind a closed cloud cover. No light in Rose's window. Haymitch forced himself to not look at the teacher's house. He knew Rose had been ill, but he'd refrained from seeing her since that winter's night when they'd rescued Gale. It was for the best. Saver for her. And he himself was used to pain, so what did it matter?

He had to feel more than see his way following the narrow path from the Seam school along the fence, but did not dare to light a torch. Though – with temperatures close to zero, even Commander Thread spent the night in his warm bed and not patrolling the perimeter... It was – hopefully – the last bout of frost the valley would get. Haymitch could hardly feel his feet anymore as he waited at the crossing that lead to the railway bridge.

When a dark figure approached, he stepped into his way. The other man stumbled and slipped. Cursing under his breath he tried to make out who barred the path. Haymitch closed a hand around the knife in his pocket and squinted into the darkness. Too tall for Rose, too silent for a Peacekeeper... The man lit a match, the flame a sudden bright light. When Haymitch recognized Gale, he exhaled slowly.

"About time. This is the third night I spend out here waiting for you."

"I am being watched. It is not so easy to sneak out anymore. My mother will tan my hide if she finds out."

"And the Peacekeepers will execute you on the spot."

Gale shrugged and dropped the match into the snow where it sizzled and died. "There is always the forest. I know my way around, if they corner me I'll slip away and under the fence. They'll never get me."

Haymitch rubbed the spot between his brows to keep himself from just strangling the ignorant boy. The young – always so sure they were invulnerable. When he'd been Gale's age he'd known better. He picked up a piece of wood and flung it into the fence. Sparks went off, the wire glowed, burned wood smoked and stank.

Gale stared at the fence in open-mouthed horror. "It's loaded!"

"Yeah. Now pass me the disk, if you please."

Gale frowned at him and instinctively touched his breast pocket. "What? Why?"

"It's too dangerous."

"It was dangerous right from the beginning." The younger man struck another match alight. "So this is it? You give up? Just because a new Head is throwing his weight around?"

"Just because… You of all people should know that Thread will show no mercy if he feels even the slightest stir of rebellion in the District! Being caught with a secret message will not get you flogged – next time it's the blood yard and a firing squad at dawn."

"He won't catch me."

"No he won't. Cause you won't be out there to get caught, you understand?" Haymitch gritted his teeth and held out his hand again. "The disk."

Gale shot him a look of pure contempt when he handed over the small object. "You know what? You are not the only insurgent in Twelve. There are others and we shall go on until things change, and if it costs our live!"

"Damn it, boy, try not to be an idiot, will you? Give it some time, don't do anything hasty. People are not ready yet." When Gale just turned away, he caught him at the shoulder and spun him around. "Listen to me!"

Gale's eyes were hard and cold, not like the eyes of a 19-year-old, rather much like what Haymitch saw when he looked in a mirror these days. '_All for Panem_,' he thought. _'We sacrifice our children, our dreams, our innocence…'_

"I listen to my shift-boss, 'cause I have to. I listen to my mother, 'cause I love her," said Gale flatly. "I used to listen to you 'cause I respected you. But if you back down now, I won't listen anymore."

/

The train was coming around the bend. They could not see it yet, only feel the vibration of the tracks. In about 30 seconds there'd be a white light in the distance, coming closer, closer, closer. The train would have to slow down to cross the old bridge. When it reached the first bridgehead it would only move at walking speed. That was when they'd hit it.

Rose crouched in the shadow of the sandstone-block where she'd once hidden when Gale attached the messenger disk to a waggon. Then it had been a full moon, but tonight the sky was dark and cloudy. Gale had said they were lucky, that it would be easier to get away in the darkness. But Rose wished for a few stars.

Two days ago, Gale had visited for the first time since the flogging. He still moved slowly, sat on the edge of the chair so hie would not touch the backrest. At least there had not been further consequences to his punishment. Once the mine opened again, he' got his job back. But he confirmed that people shuned Hazelle and would not employ her.

"Madge told me your mother is working for Haymitch," Rose said casually and added another log to the fire.

"It's not like she had much of a choice." Gale pressed his lips together. "He is a decent guy, but for one reason or another she can't abide him. I guess it has something to do with her brother who died in the Games."

"It must not be easy to return every year with the coffins of two children."

"No. But it's not like anybody else blames Haymitch. Well, most people don't. Twelvers always knew they had no chance. " He breathed out. "Until last year. Now the tributes from Twelve must survive. Whoever mentors them will be expected to bring them home alive."

"Looks like Haymitch got out of the fire only to land in the frying pan."

Gale snorted. "Hell yeah! Poor bastard." He warmed his hands on the mug Rose set before him on the table. "Although now there's three of them … I don't really know how they choose mentors, but I guess Katniss has to go anyway, since she's the only female victor we have."

Rose sat down. She still wore the patched trousers and thick flannel shirt, her work clothes. To make the most of the fine weather she'd spent all weekend raking away the rotten leaves and freeing tiny green shoots of daffodils and crocus. Her bees took their first excursions and returned, drunken with pollen from hazel and willow catkin. She felt good, healthy and strong. Spring was the time of growing life, of hope. She'd grieved for her husband and what they'd had, for almost four years. With Haymitch she grieved for what could have been… Maybe when all the flowers were out and the days longer, and nothing reminded her of winter anymore, she'd stop thinking of him.

"How are things with the grand engagement?" she asked Gale.

He pushed the mug back and stood up. His back to her he looked out of the window over the sink. His voice was fierce. "I wish we'd left when Katniss asked me. Now it's too late. Did you know the fence is loaded?"

"The kids told me."

"We can't go hunting." He walked back to the table and fell into the chair. "This is the first spring in seven years I won't bring home water cress from the creek behind the fence."

This simple grievance told her more about his despair than a long lament. But there was nothing she could do. Haymitch – who was wrong about oh so many things – was right about this. To make a change it needed more than desperation and righteousness. A rebellion by the citizens of Twelve would end in a bloodbath. And there was no outer force who could interfere. So they were doomed.

"Rose, do you remember Darius?"

For a moment she could not attach the name. Then she remembered the young Peacekeeper who had tried to stop Commander Thread flogging Gale to death.

"I do. They carried him from the square when Haymitch cut you lose."

"His trial was yesterday."

Once a month a judge arrived from the Capitol to try all court cases but since the snow had delayed traffic, Darius had spent almost eight weeks in prison.

"He was found guilty of refusing to obey orders and attacking his commanding officer."

"What is going to happen to him?"

Gale swallowed and stared into his mug. "They'll take him to the Capitol and make him an Avox."

Rose frowned. "An … Avox?"

"They'll take his voice away." When she still did not understand, he looked straight at her, the horror of the sentence in his eyes. "They'll cut out his tongue and make him their slave."

She touched his hand to comfort him. "It is not your fault, Gale. There was nothing you could do."

"I know." He closed his eyes and shook his head. "Still … I can't let this happen. They'll take him to the Capitol the day after tomorrow, on the freight train that leaves at midnight. I need your help, Rose."

"My help," she repeated, confused. "With what?"

"Help me get Darius out."

She had to cough to free her throat. "Are you crazy? You and I will stop the Capitol express?" she croaked.

"Not just you and I. There will be four of us. One will climb on the last wagon and decouple it from the train. Two will unlock the wagon door and keep the guards at bay. And you…" he looked at her pleadingly, "… will help Darius climb off the bride and run."

"You really ARE crazy!"

His voice was cool and even. "We thought this through, believe me. Neither I nor Bristel or Thom are good climbers, certainly not in darkness. But you are! Get Darius down to the ground. Then you both follow the river bed so the dogs won't find your scent. Once you reach the road you split. You go and visit the Everdeens, Katniss will give you an alibi. … You are having a relapse or something. Darius must hide in the tar mill until we find a better place."

Not even the smartest hound dog could track a man in the tar mill. If Darius ever got there he'd be quite save. Still…

She shook her head. "You don't know if he'll be able to run, let alone climb. There is still ice on the BRIDGEWORK. What if he is too weak?"

"We'll try to buy you as much time as possible. It is the only way, Rose."

"And what about you? You can't keep a whole train of Peacekeepers in check for long!"

"There will only be the four guards in the wagon with Darius. The two engine drivers will be half a mile away when they notice they've lost part of their train. Once you and Darius have reached the river we'll lock the guards in the carriage and disappear like ghosts in the night."

She was about to refuse, when he added: "I'd ask Haymitch for help, but all he'll tell me is to wait. Wait for what? Darius' time is running out."

That had been two days ago.

And now it was night and they waited on the bridge as planned. Only the plan had gone wrong from the start.

In the afternoon an illegal shotgun had been found in a storage room adjacent to the miner's wash-house. The Peacekeepers had locked the doors and forced all miners to stand in the yard and remain for questioning. As if anybody would own up to possessing a gun!

Even so, Gale was still in the mine yard, nobody was allowed to enter or leave. Rose had been adamant to abandon the raid, but Gale's mate Thom and the girl he brought with him, had insisted they go through with it. This was their only chance to free Darius. Rose knew the girl, Bristel, from the Hob. Dark haired and grey eyed, she could have been Gale's or Katniss' cousin, though she was a few years older and much sturdier built than the Everdeen girl. Rose had once seen her manhandling a drunk at Ripper's stall, so she assumed Bristel knew how to fight. But hauling out drunks was one thing, facing armed Peacekeepers was another.

"Bristel knows her way around trains. She works at the coal depot as a mechanic," explained Thom when they walked along the river to the bridge. "She will decouple the wagons."

"So it's you alone against four guards?" Rose still thought this was madness.

Thom wore a pistol in a leather holster at his hip. Not a fancy laser weapon like the Peacekeepers had, but a tarnished clunky thing. Still, a bullet would kill just as easily as laser fire. He fixed Rose with a stern glance.

"As soon as Darius is out of the wagon, take his hand and run. Don't waste time, climb straight down. You got your …"

"I got my rope." He'd asked her a dozen times by now, a sign how nervous he really was.

Bristel drudged behind them through the mud. In the shadow of the bridge winter stubbornly clung to grey banks of snow. Rose saw with unease that the normally shallow stream had turned into a raging current. There was no way anybody would cross that river tonight. They'd have to follow it all the way to the wooden bridge by the main road.

The railway bridge was easier to climb, now that the bars were dry and free of ice. Rose and Thom tied the rope to the railing so they would not lose time later. Bristel prepared her tools. She showed Rose a heavy key.

"For the carriage door. The wagon master is in on this. Darius made quite a few friends in Twelve."

As far as Rose knew from Gale's stories, Darius had been posted here in '70. A Peacekeeper who spent five years in a district got to know people. Darius had never participated in Commander Cray's favourite vice – forcing young girls into his bed. He'd now and again kept his eyes and mouth shut when somebody slipped through the fence. He'd bought the occasional turkey, and now Bristel told Rose how Darius had once, when scarlet fever raged through the district, organized medicine for the Seam.

The girl closed her hand around the key. "I owe him my brother's life. See, Haymitch bribed the pharmacist to order the medicine, but the district doctor claimed the shipment as his own. Darius signed for it in Commander Cray's absence and convinced the doctor he'd never heard about it . He risked his life for us."

'And now you risk your life for him,' Rose thought. The Seam did not forget.

The tracks hummed.

A light appeared in the far distance, a needleprick at first, getting larger and brighter by the second. The train was coming.

As planned, it had to slow when it reached the bridge. As planned, Bristel jumped onto the connecting platform between the last two cars and wrenched at the couplers. As planned, the train rolled away while the last wagon came to a halt.

As planned, Thom unlocked the door, gun drawn.

Then all hell broke loose.

Voices shouted. Blinding white floodlights went on and lit the scene. There were not four guards in the wagon, but a dozen. More rose from their hiding place on top of the car, well prepared for the attack. The plan had been betrayed.

Shots rang out, the dry searing sound of laser guns. Rose heard Bristel scream. Heard Thom shout Darius' name. She tried to make sense of the chaos around her. Armed men ran along the tracks, firing at anything that moved.

The rope was still tied to the railing. Rose slipped through the lower bar, and climbed down. Someone yanked at the rope and she had to let go and drop the last two meters. The mud of the riverbank broke her fall, and she tried to make sense of her surroundings. The water to her left, too wild to offer an escape route. The embankment to her right was brightly lit by search lights But if she kept to the shadow of the bridge, maybe she could…

She stumbled over a body.

Going down on her hands and knees, she felt long hair, a braid undone. A shirt, soaked with warm liquid.

"Bristel?"

The light beam reached them, and Rose gasped when she got a clear view of the girl. She must have dropped off the side of the bridge, but the fall had not killed her. A shot had ripped a sizeable chunk from her neck and opened the artery. Bright red blood sprayed all over Rose's hands when she tried in vain to stop the bleeding.

The girl's lips moved. "Tell the Mockingjay …", she breathed. "One day we'll fly free."

The light in Bristel's eyes went out.

Rose choked with tears, and shut the girl's eyelids.

"Hands on your head!"

The command came sharp and anxious. A very nervous Peacekeeper pointed his gun at her. They'd just shot a woman, they would not hesitate to shoot another one. Rose's mouth went dry. Her hands trembled when she raised them. Two Peacekeepers dragged her to her feet.

On the other side of the road a combat van arrived. Thread, the Head Peacekeeper, barked orders. A body was stowed in the back. Before the door was shut, Rose thought she saw a foot move. Was that Thom? Was he still alive? Or Darius? Icy fear gripped her. Had Gale found a way to get to them, to join the raid? Had he been caught as well?

"Name?"

She stared at the dead girl in the mud. "Bristel. Her name was Bristel."

The Head Peacekeeper stalked over to them.

"_Your_ name!"

The cold mouth of the gun dug into her temple.

Commander Thread kicked the corpse into the river. Bristel floated, arms spread, black hair a trailing veil, until the icy current pulled her under.

Thread watched her disappear, then he turned to Rose.

"I remember you."

/

"Whamm!"

Haymitch shot up from his stupor.

"Whamm!"

A bottle rolled across the kitchen table and smashed on the floor. Haymitch's blade stabbed an innocent chunk of bread. A jar of marmalade shared the bottle's fate.

He rubbed his eyes. It was barely light outside. Who the …

"Whamm! Whamm!"

"Open up, Haymitch!"

Grimacing with pain, he got up, and made his way to the door. The night chill lingered in the hall and he noticed he'd fallen asleep in a puddle of … whatever, because his shirt was soaked.

"Whamm!"

He wrenched back the iron bar and gave the door a good pull. Although it was still very early, the dawning light hurt his eyes and made him wince.

Gale and the Undersee girl stood on the doorstep, Gale's fist raised to whack the door again.

Haymitch dug his finger into the young man's chest. "Once more and I smack your face into the wall. See how you like that!"

"Please, Mr Abernathy …" Madge's voice trembled a bit but she stood her ground. "We need your help."

"It's what? Six in the fucking morning?" Before Haymitch could tell them to piss off and come back later – or never –, Gale pushed him back into the hall, drew Madge inside and shut the door.

"If the two of you plan to elope and live in the forest," Haymitch sneered, "go ahead! You have my blessing." He waved at the room. "Have a wedding present!"

Madge starred at Gale. "What is he talking about?"

He blushed with anger and embarrassment. "He's wasted."

"So?" Haymitch's dropped into a chair and stretched his legs. "If a man can't get drunk in the comfort of his own home …"

"It's about Rose," Madge burst into tears. Only now Haymitch took in the angry red spots on her neck, her puffy eyes, the careless braids. "She has been arrested last night. I overheard my father talk to my mother after the Peacekeepers brought her in."

"Oh fuck!" Haymitch buried his throbbing head in his hands. "I told her to be quiet and lay low. I told her!" He looked up at Gale. "Arrested for what? Did she spit Commander Threat in the face? Did she teach her classes a rebel song?"

Gale's face, white as death, made him pause. Very slowly he got up, suddenly painfully sober.

"What the hell did you do?"

/

Rose sat on the pallet in her cell and counted the bricks in the wall. In the last three weeks she's counted bricks and cracks, threads in the thin blanket, hairs on her forearm. She's sung all songs she could remember and made up new ones. She'd recited every poem she'd ever learned, every date and historical event, the main properties of all the Districts. And now she was ready to go insane.

Solitary confinement did that to you. She'd thought herself lonely in her little house on the edge of town, but even when she'd been ill, she'd talked to people every day. Iris, Madge, sometimes Peeta or one of her many students. Here she was alone. Totally alone. In the three weeks of her imprisonment she'd not seen a single soul but the two guards who took turns bringing her food and water and unlocking the door to let her use the toilet facilities in the morning. Every other day she was lead to an inner court yard where she could walk in tight circles or stand still. Nobody cared. Nobody talked to her.

Once, when she'd waited to leave the yard after her 'promenade' she'd heard a voice from the western wing of the building. It may have been Thom. He may have been in pain. She was not sure.

There were other prisoners, but not in her wing. So she concluded that she was the only woman right now, and the men were … elsewhere. Maybe in that western wing where the screams came from. Or maybe she was hearing voices that existed only in her head. Her great uncle Joseff had told her stories about the first decades after the Dark Days. He had always claimed that the Capitol had means to make you believe in whatever reality they created for you. Hijacking, he'd called it. But surely that required drugs and torture, not just three weeks in a windowless cell.

She had not been allowed any visitors, could not even know if anybody had applied for the permission to visit. Her relatives from 12A? Haymitch, who'd told her they'd be strangers from now on? Probably not. Madge maybe, but the mayor would have made sure his daughter's name did not show up in any file concerning a rebel. _A rebel!_ She, Rose Cumberland, a 29-year-old teacher from 12A, was a rebel and an enemy of the state. These were the Head Peacekeeper's words, and they sounded strange and like nothing she could refer to.

Sooner or later there'd be a trial and a sentence. She did not harbour any illusions, they would not let her go with a slap on the wrist. Forced labour in one of the graphite mines in the radioactive wasteland of what had once been District 13, where nobody lasted longer than six months? Or imprisonment in one of the island fortresses off the coast of District 4? She tried hard not to dwell on the possibility of being taken to the Capitol and turned into an Avox. What had Gale said? 'They cut out their tongue and turn them into slaves.'

If Darius had not been shot during the incident on the bridge – and who knew what had happened there in the darkness? – if he was still alive he probably was an Avox by now, for ever silenced.

At least it was never dark in her cell, they always left the light on. Sometimes at night – or when she thought it must be night because her guards had not shown up for a long time – she worried about what had happened to Gale, to Thom, to Darius. But most of the time she counted the bricks, or walked from one wall to the other, eight steps there and back again. They fed her well, mostly stodge or bread and cheese, and ironically she was in much better shape after three weeks in prison than before her arrest.

A clanking noise, metal against metal, alerted her and she stood up, back to the wall, hands on her head as required when the guards opened the door.

One of them, a heavyset man whose white uniform was too tight around the collar and gave him an unhealthy red complexion, held out a set of manacles, black plastic bands which could be used to electrocute a recalcitrant prisoner.

Rose pushed back the sleeves of her prison gear, an orange jumpsuit made for a much taller person, and let the guard shackle her.

"Where are we going? It's not time for my walk, is it?"

She did not expect an answer since they never talked to her. So she startled when he said: "Court day. Your case is up."

The two guards led her through the silent corridors of the Justice Building, across a yard, up a stair and into a large room with a chair in the middle and a long table at the front wall. Peacekeepers guarded the two doors on opposite sides. The windows were barred with iron rails, from the looks of it a recent addition. The great seal of Panem with its stylized eagle hung suspended over the table.

A jury of five. In Rose's political science course her professors had argued that this was the number which guaranteed a fair trail. But everybody knew that no juryman would dare to contradict the judge from the Capitol. So it really was a jury of one…

The judge looked like a vulture, his nose a sharp beak, his eyes small and hard as pebbles. His fingers drummed onto the file in front of him while he waited until the guards led Rose to the defendant's chair.

On her way across the room Rose noticed Mayor Undersee, looking pale and miserable, next to Commander Thread. The Head Peacekeeper sat upright, his eyes on the chair in the middle – always ready to defend Panem from her enemies. They were the only audience, but their mere presence made this a 'public' trial, as the District code conceded to every citizen.

The judge turned to Thread. "The defendant has been duly questioned?"

Threat shot up and stood to attention. "Your honour, the defendant has been questioned as the code demands. She refused to help the force with their investigations."

The judge skimmed through his file. "I see the Peacekeepers have gathered all information by other means. Well done, Commander." He frowned at Rose. "I see no need to question an unwilling defendant again and wasting the government's money on a trial longer than necessary. … Sit down."

Rose sat down, her shackled hands in her lap. She felt very small under the eyes of the jury and the eagle. Her heart pounded in her ears. She'd known there'd be nobody to speak on her behalf. But they should at least give her the chance to defend herself. The hands of the guards lay heavy on her shoulders, a silent warning.

The judge cleared his throat and started to read out the charges and evidence against her.

"Premeditated damage to Capitol property – caught on scene – guilty."

"Conspiracy to overthrow this government – witness statements – guilty."

"Refusal to cooperate with the Peacekeepers – witness statements – guilty."

"Attempted murder by derailing a train – forensic expertise – guilty."

"Treason by perjury – fact – guilty."

The last point the judge elaborated on: "You, Rose Cumberland, are a teacher and thus a sworn official of this government. Panem has clothed and fed you, has educated and provided for you. She trusted you with her most precious possession, her children. Thus your vile actions weigh heavier than those of any common citizen. There can only be one sentence for this kind of betrayal."

The two guards yanked her up by her elbows until she faced the judge standing. Completely numb, she let him talk. This was not real. Could not be real.

"Rose Cumberland, born 11'05'46 in District 12, branch A – by the power vested in me by the President of Panem, I sentence you to death. On the morning after the Reaping you will be executed. Your body then will be cremated and the ashes scattered in a nameless place, so there'll be no reminder of your treason."

/

Haymitch stood in front of a shopping window full of shoes for women, but he had not chosen that very window for its merchandise. The shop lay right opposite the Justice Building, and the glass was like a mirror.

He'd walked across the square and bought bread in Mellark's bakery and soap in Yorke's grocery store so he would not be seen standing by that one window for too long. But now the narrow side door of the Justice Building opened.

A Peacekeeper stepped out.

Haymitch kept his back to the building and watched the man's every move. It was the young Peacekeeper who'd approached Rose the night of the Victors' Feast. It had not taken much – a bit of smooth talking, a few coins, an autograph for a girlfriend in the Capitol – to befriend the man. Turned out Marcus Payne was unhappy with his post and thoroughly regretted the moment he'd enlisted. Haymitch knew that a good part of those Peacekeepers who hailed from the Capitol had taken the uniform to escape debt or a criminal past. But Marcus was a nice enough lad and if time were different they'd probably shared a couple of drinks. As things were, Haymitch paid him for information, for better treatment for Rose, and if worst came to worst – which it always did, in Haymitch's experience – he'd pay him for risking his life.

Marcus stood on the step and stared straight ahead, black helmet obscuring his face. Just a guard surveying the square. Then he raised a hand and laid it over his heart.

Haymitch closed his eyes. A death sentence.

His fingers touched a small piece of paper in his pocket. He'd have to find Ripper. "Tick tock," he muttered as he left the square. This would be a fight against time.

/

Plutarch stared at the slip of paper that had reached the Capitol through a dozen hands, passed on by people who risked their lives by doing so.

"I know I asked for a distraction, my friend," he muttered and placed the last chess piece in the position the paper suggested. "But I am not sure I can keep my promise to get you out alive of … this."

He walked around the table, considering the chessboard from every angle. The white queen and king protected by all their pawns in one corner. The white general and rook isolated in the centre of the board, left vulnerable to attack, beset by all the black pieces.

"I see though, how this will save the Mockingjay." The Gamemaker picked out the general and the rook and weighed them in his open palm. "Of course we'll have to rig the Reaping. And adapt the arena," he pondered, already in full planning mode. "And change the rules. I'll just have to convince the President that this was _his_ idea from the start."

He closed his hand around the pieces and touched the intercom panel on his desk. "Fulvia, get me an appointment with President Snow. A strategy meeting."

/

Viewing the President's speeches was mandatory. Whether you lived in the Seam or the merchant's quarter, rich or poor, you had to stop your work and gather in front of the screens. Schoolchildren would now and then be asked oh so casually if their parents had watched the program last night. Workers had to report if they noticed others skipping the broadcast. There was no excuse.

When the announcement came at the end of March, all of Panem spent the first balmy spring evening indoors to watch. Snow's live speeches were few and far between. At the beginning and end of the Games, on Remembrance Day in September and on Victory Day in October. A speech at this time of year, with the Games a good month away, usually bode ill for the districts.

Of course this was no normal year – the Games would be the 3rd Quarter Quell. So all rules were off.

The anthem played and President Snow took the stage, followed by a page boy carrying a plain wooden box. Many viewers had never seen the Quarter Quell casket before. After all, the last Quell had happened 25 years ago. When, after the traditional litany on the history of the Games, the President opened the box, the cameras zoomed in on the hundreds of envelopes. A clear message: The district's debt would never be paid in full. The Games would never end.

Snow held the envelope in his hands and looked straight into the camera. Quite a few of the viewers felt uneasy, as if the President could look straight into their hearts and minds. He started to speak:

"On the 25th anniversary every district had to vote on the tributes who'd represent it. This was to remind the rebels that their children died not because of fate, but because of _their choice_ to initiate violence." Naturally they'd voted for the outsiders, for the poor, the weak, those without family. It had saved their own children – for that year – but it had cut deep into the soul of the districts. By voting on the tributes they had become accomplices of the Capitol.

For the 2nd Quarter Quell in '50, the Reaping had cost not two, but four tributes from every district. The bloodbath in the arena had been spectacular with so many 'players'. This was supposed to be a reminder that two rebels had died for each Capitol citizen – as if anybody needed reminding, with many of the rebel generation still alive.

"And now, 75 years after the Dark Days, we honour our 3rd Quarter Quell," said the President with appropriate gravitas. He used a silver pen-knife to cut open the flap and pulled out a small square of paper. With a last glance at his riveted audience, he read:

"As a reminder to the districts that the real enemy is amongst them …" A tiny twitch of the mouth, a ghost of a cruel smile. "… we proclaim that in every district two tributes, one male, one female, will be reaped from …"

/

_To be continued._


End file.
